J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection by J. M. Dillard Page B
Authors: J. M. Dillard
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had an honest emergency at PITS—"
"I must have called your place a hundred times since last night. You wouldn't pick up the phone."
"An emergency, Char. Read my lips. I just got back from the Institute five minutes ago."
She searched his face. The day's growth of beard and the circles under his eyes must have convinced her, because she tried a different tack. "You knew how important that party was to me. To us."
Patience, Harrison warned himself, but he felt too weary to play this game now—and precious time was passing while God knew what was out there in the desert. "Honey, my work is important too. I've got to—"
"They want you at Bleaker-Williams. Do you have any idea how much they're willing to pay you there? But the offer won't last forever."
"I like what I'm doing," he said stonily. "And that's that." He tried to kiss her good-bye, give a hurried explanation, but she pulled away.
"Isn't a fiancee entitled to a vote, Harrison? Won't you even discuss it?"
"Dammit, Char—" Harrison took a deep breath and fought back his anger. In a softer tone, he replied, "We have discussed it. You know how I feel."
"We haven't discussed it enough." She tossed her waving blond hair back carelessly. It was an attractive gesture, one Harrison decided looked just a little too practiced. "We'll talk more tonight. Over dinner. I've made reservations at Chez L'Auberge—"
He shook his head firmly. "Can't do it. I have to go out of town."
She reacted angrily to that, and opened her mouth to argue, but he spoke quickly, forcefully, in a seriously determined tone he had never used with her before. "Just overnight. It's business. Char, I promise, I'll make it up to you when I get back. Goddamm it, it is an emergency and I don't have time to discuss it now."
He tried again to kiss her, but she pulled too far away; firmly, he took hold of her shoulders and brought her close enough to give her a light peck on the cheek.
"Try to understand," he said, then dashed back to the Bronco.
The Mercedes' tires squealed as Charlotte pulled out of the driveway, but Harrison forced himself not to look back.
A horn blared outside in the driveway.
Peering through the white sheers in the bedroom window, Mrs. Pennyworth said, "That would be your ride now."
"Are you sure you know where everything is?" Suzanne tucked a change of clothes into the hanging bag flung across her bed.
"I know," the older woman answered firmly. "And what I don't know, Deborah can show me."
Suzanne felt a twinge of guilt at that. Poor Deb . . . tonight when she came home, she'd find her mother gone, and a stranger waiting for her in this new, unfamiliar house. Thank God the stranger was this competent, pleasant-faced grandmother and not some seventeen-year-old kid. "I'm so sorry to do this on such short notice, Mrs. Pennyworth."
"Not one more time may you apologize for that," Mrs. Pennyworth scolded in her faint Dutch accent. "I live only two houses away. It could not be more convenient. And how grateful I am Deborah is an eleven-year-old girl and not some screaming two-year-old!"
Suzanne smiled weakly at her; a tall, strong-looking woman, Mrs. Pennyworth was near seventy, hair pulled back into a tight bun, but there were still a few golden brown strands mixed in among the silver. Suzanne had gotten her name from a list Dr. Jacobi had sent to her in Ohio; the list had also included a pediatrician, a dentist, and the name of the realtor Suzanne had purchased the house from.
"Ah." Mrs. Pennyworth looked out again at the driveway. "I see you work for Harrison Blackwood." She gave a knowing nod. "Now the short notice is understandable."
"You know Harrison?" Surprised, Suzanne glanced
up from her packing. "Did you use to work for the Institute?" In a secretarial or assistant capacity, she'd meant.
"Yes. I see Ephram told you nothing about me." Amused, the older woman turned her face from the window. "He is much like Harrison, always wanting to keep information to
"I must have called your place a hundred times since last night. You wouldn't pick up the phone."
"An emergency, Char. Read my lips. I just got back from the Institute five minutes ago."
She searched his face. The day's growth of beard and the circles under his eyes must have convinced her, because she tried a different tack. "You knew how important that party was to me. To us."
Patience, Harrison warned himself, but he felt too weary to play this game now—and precious time was passing while God knew what was out there in the desert. "Honey, my work is important too. I've got to—"
"They want you at Bleaker-Williams. Do you have any idea how much they're willing to pay you there? But the offer won't last forever."
"I like what I'm doing," he said stonily. "And that's that." He tried to kiss her good-bye, give a hurried explanation, but she pulled away.
"Isn't a fiancee entitled to a vote, Harrison? Won't you even discuss it?"
"Dammit, Char—" Harrison took a deep breath and fought back his anger. In a softer tone, he replied, "We have discussed it. You know how I feel."
"We haven't discussed it enough." She tossed her waving blond hair back carelessly. It was an attractive gesture, one Harrison decided looked just a little too practiced. "We'll talk more tonight. Over dinner. I've made reservations at Chez L'Auberge—"
He shook his head firmly. "Can't do it. I have to go out of town."
She reacted angrily to that, and opened her mouth to argue, but he spoke quickly, forcefully, in a seriously determined tone he had never used with her before. "Just overnight. It's business. Char, I promise, I'll make it up to you when I get back. Goddamm it, it is an emergency and I don't have time to discuss it now."
He tried again to kiss her, but she pulled too far away; firmly, he took hold of her shoulders and brought her close enough to give her a light peck on the cheek.
"Try to understand," he said, then dashed back to the Bronco.
The Mercedes' tires squealed as Charlotte pulled out of the driveway, but Harrison forced himself not to look back.
A horn blared outside in the driveway.
Peering through the white sheers in the bedroom window, Mrs. Pennyworth said, "That would be your ride now."
"Are you sure you know where everything is?" Suzanne tucked a change of clothes into the hanging bag flung across her bed.
"I know," the older woman answered firmly. "And what I don't know, Deborah can show me."
Suzanne felt a twinge of guilt at that. Poor Deb . . . tonight when she came home, she'd find her mother gone, and a stranger waiting for her in this new, unfamiliar house. Thank God the stranger was this competent, pleasant-faced grandmother and not some seventeen-year-old kid. "I'm so sorry to do this on such short notice, Mrs. Pennyworth."
"Not one more time may you apologize for that," Mrs. Pennyworth scolded in her faint Dutch accent. "I live only two houses away. It could not be more convenient. And how grateful I am Deborah is an eleven-year-old girl and not some screaming two-year-old!"
Suzanne smiled weakly at her; a tall, strong-looking woman, Mrs. Pennyworth was near seventy, hair pulled back into a tight bun, but there were still a few golden brown strands mixed in among the silver. Suzanne had gotten her name from a list Dr. Jacobi had sent to her in Ohio; the list had also included a pediatrician, a dentist, and the name of the realtor Suzanne had purchased the house from.
"Ah." Mrs. Pennyworth looked out again at the driveway. "I see you work for Harrison Blackwood." She gave a knowing nod. "Now the short notice is understandable."
"You know Harrison?" Surprised, Suzanne glanced
up from her packing. "Did you use to work for the Institute?" In a secretarial or assistant capacity, she'd meant.
"Yes. I see Ephram told you nothing about me." Amused, the older woman turned her face from the window. "He is much like Harrison, always wanting to keep information to
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