robe and got back under the covers. I watched him undress. An incredible sight. If he had known what I was thinking, it might have made him blush.
He stood looking at me for a moment, then crawled in next to me. I could tell he was still feeling—what was it? Hurt? Sad? I didn’t know. But he seemed a little less miserable than he had earlier. He kissed me again. I pulled him close, savoring his touch.
“Frank.”
“Hmmm.”
“I missed you.”
His answer wasn’t verbal, but I didn’t mind. Not at all.
HE FELL ASLEEP holding me. I stayed awake for a while, listening to him breathe, and wondering how I had come to feel such a need for the man. I had been so fiercely independent for so long, it was frightening to realize what a hold he had on me. Not that I was a simpering wimp or anything—I smiled thinking of some of the tests of wills Frank and I had experienced in the last few months. And I knew that if it didn’t work out, I would go on with my life. But I didn’t want to think of what life without Frank would be like.
Still, his behavior since Mrs. Fremont’s death had been odd; I hadn’t seen this side of Frank before now. I knew he could brood at times, but there was an intensity in his current mood that was unsettling. He had come back across some of the distance he had put between us last night, but something in his manner clearly said he didn’t want me asking him a lot of questions. And as much as my curious nature rebelled against that, somehow I knew not to force the issue.
We still had a lot to learn about each other, Frank and I.
Cody jumped up on the bed and situated himself in the curve behind Frank’s knees. I laced my fingers into Frank’s hand, and fell asleep.
12
I WAS ALONE in bed when I woke up the next morning. Frank had awakened a couple of times during the night; his sleep had been troubled. I supposed that at some point he had given up on it. I stretched and got out of bed. Maybe he had already left for work. I looked at the clock and realized that I had almost slept until noon. I didn’t feel as if it were a case of sloth, though. Just catching up on my sleep.
I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, finding evidence that Frank had not only been up before me but had also been to the store and back. I was quite pleased that I would not have to test the “seven-day freshness” guarantee on the older milk carton.
There was some fresh bread as well, so I made a grilled cheese sandwich for myself. When I got to the table with my plate and milk, I saw the note he had left for me.
“Irene—Thanks. Please be patient. Frank.”
Please be patient. Translation: Please don’t ask me what’s wrong, please be ready for me at the drop of a hat, please put up with my moodiness. The damnable thing was, I would try to do just that.
He had also brought the paper in, and I was fortunate he didn’t leave it in the kitchen, or I probably would have lost my appetite. The front page was splashed with the Fremont murder story, and the headline made my stomach tighten. “Shelter Founder Murdered by Satanists?” A question mark to cover a multitude of reporting sins. The byline was given to Dorothy Bliss. In the newsroom, our private saying was, “Bliss is ignorance.”
Although the story itself was couched in careful terms that as much as admitted this was a guess based on the drawing of the goat on the door, by the end of the day most of Las Piernas would undoubtedly be convinced by the headline. While I wasn’t sure Mrs. Fremont hadn’t been murdered by Satanists, somehow seeing it in print brought about a reaction in me, making me want to find the flaws in the assertion.
Mark’s story on Jerry Tanner and the harbor shooting didn’t get the play it deserved, but it was reasoned, clear, and balanced. It’s a good thing I saw it, because the next story I laid eyes on didn’t make me feel any pride in working for the Express.
Not two inches away from the Fremont
He stood looking at me for a moment, then crawled in next to me. I could tell he was still feeling—what was it? Hurt? Sad? I didn’t know. But he seemed a little less miserable than he had earlier. He kissed me again. I pulled him close, savoring his touch.
“Frank.”
“Hmmm.”
“I missed you.”
His answer wasn’t verbal, but I didn’t mind. Not at all.
HE FELL ASLEEP holding me. I stayed awake for a while, listening to him breathe, and wondering how I had come to feel such a need for the man. I had been so fiercely independent for so long, it was frightening to realize what a hold he had on me. Not that I was a simpering wimp or anything—I smiled thinking of some of the tests of wills Frank and I had experienced in the last few months. And I knew that if it didn’t work out, I would go on with my life. But I didn’t want to think of what life without Frank would be like.
Still, his behavior since Mrs. Fremont’s death had been odd; I hadn’t seen this side of Frank before now. I knew he could brood at times, but there was an intensity in his current mood that was unsettling. He had come back across some of the distance he had put between us last night, but something in his manner clearly said he didn’t want me asking him a lot of questions. And as much as my curious nature rebelled against that, somehow I knew not to force the issue.
We still had a lot to learn about each other, Frank and I.
Cody jumped up on the bed and situated himself in the curve behind Frank’s knees. I laced my fingers into Frank’s hand, and fell asleep.
12
I WAS ALONE in bed when I woke up the next morning. Frank had awakened a couple of times during the night; his sleep had been troubled. I supposed that at some point he had given up on it. I stretched and got out of bed. Maybe he had already left for work. I looked at the clock and realized that I had almost slept until noon. I didn’t feel as if it were a case of sloth, though. Just catching up on my sleep.
I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, finding evidence that Frank had not only been up before me but had also been to the store and back. I was quite pleased that I would not have to test the “seven-day freshness” guarantee on the older milk carton.
There was some fresh bread as well, so I made a grilled cheese sandwich for myself. When I got to the table with my plate and milk, I saw the note he had left for me.
“Irene—Thanks. Please be patient. Frank.”
Please be patient. Translation: Please don’t ask me what’s wrong, please be ready for me at the drop of a hat, please put up with my moodiness. The damnable thing was, I would try to do just that.
He had also brought the paper in, and I was fortunate he didn’t leave it in the kitchen, or I probably would have lost my appetite. The front page was splashed with the Fremont murder story, and the headline made my stomach tighten. “Shelter Founder Murdered by Satanists?” A question mark to cover a multitude of reporting sins. The byline was given to Dorothy Bliss. In the newsroom, our private saying was, “Bliss is ignorance.”
Although the story itself was couched in careful terms that as much as admitted this was a guess based on the drawing of the goat on the door, by the end of the day most of Las Piernas would undoubtedly be convinced by the headline. While I wasn’t sure Mrs. Fremont hadn’t been murdered by Satanists, somehow seeing it in print brought about a reaction in me, making me want to find the flaws in the assertion.
Mark’s story on Jerry Tanner and the harbor shooting didn’t get the play it deserved, but it was reasoned, clear, and balanced. It’s a good thing I saw it, because the next story I laid eyes on didn’t make me feel any pride in working for the Express.
Not two inches away from the Fremont
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