At first, she didn’t see much but then, a flash at the window.
A man was on the window ledge, heaving himself into the room. A large man. Son of Sam size. Anita slithered around the doorway, pressed herself to the wall and crept barefoot around the perimeter of the room.
He didn’t notice her. He was too busy huffing and puffing his way through a B and E. He paused, his hands propped on the sill. Anita reached him and before she could think about what she was about to do, she raised the pan, then swung it down as hard as she could. Her muscles—or maybe her conscience—flickered at the last second, turning her crushing blow into nothing more than a cornflake-crunching glance.
The man let out an oomph, lifted his hands to ward off future attacks and promptly fell forward, landing face first with a thud on the wood floor.
Anita raised the pan, ready to strike again. She hesitated.
There was a man on her floor. A large man. If she knocked him out, how would she ever get him out the door? That is, if she could even open the door. She could call the police, but her phone still wasn’t hooked up and for all she knew, Mercy, being such a small town, didn’t have a full-time police department, just some local yokels who probably took the law into their own hands after work. Maybe she should get the stilettos. Threaten him with the pointy end and make him crawl out.
But first, she’d be smart. Force him to fix that door. And maybe move the kitchen table to the other side of the room. Every once in a while, her choice to be manless presented a few logistical problems.
Anita hoisted the pan higher. If worse came to worse, she could tie him up with the useless telephone line and leave him for the mouse.
“Hey! That’s my dad!” A female voice shrieked behind her. “Don’t hit him!” Before Anita could react, the pan was yanked out of her hand by a girl not much bigger than her.
The man on the floor groaned. He put a hand to his head and rolled over. “Who are you and what are you doing in Claire’s—” He leaned forward, blinking. “Anita?”
She knew that voice. And that face. It couldn’t be him. Absolutely, positively could not be him. She could almost hear Rod Serling humming “Do-do, do-do…” in her ear.
The man on her floor wasn’t a bungled burglar. He was…
“Luke?”
“Dad! Don’t talk to her. She’s crazy. Not to mention, she tried to kill you.” The girl dropped the pan on the floor and crossed to her father. Anita remembered meeting his daughter—Emily was her name—a couple of times when the girl had still worn pigtails. Now she hovered over Luke, not touching him, feigning indifference, but it was clear she was concerned. “Are you, like, okay?”
“I’m fine.” Luke got to his feet, brushing off his pants as he did. He turned to Anita, his eyes and mouth wide with shock. “If that’s how you say hello, I’d hate to see you say goodbye.”
Chapter Two
Luke didn’t bother to contain his surprise at seeing Anita in Mercy. It had been at least fifteen months since he’d seen her, and now she was living three blocks from him? What puzzle piece had he missed? “What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“Why?”
“Hey, you’re the one breaking and entering.” Anita bent to retrieve the skillet. When she did, her oversize nightshirt rode up, exposing long, creamy legs. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated her face with a soft glow. “Since I’m holding the Teflon, I’ll ask the questions. Why are you climbing through my office window?”
“I was looking for Emily, who didn’t come home when she was supposed to.” He shot his pink-haired daughter the parental evil eye. She shrugged and got busy drawing a circle on the floor with her toe. “I saw her climbing into your house and went in after her.”
“I was just looking for a place to crash,” Emily muttered.
“You were avoiding punishment,” Luke said. “For that…” He gestured, wordless, at her neondyed head.
Emily let out a chuff of disgust, crossed her arms over her chest. “I hate my life.”
Anger boiled up inside of Luke. “Emily Anne, get in the car right now. You’re grounded for the next three hundred years.”
Emily parked her fists on her hips. “You can’t make me.”
Luke half expected steam to come pouring out of his ears. “Emily.”
Anita stepped forward and laid the pan on a box. She lifted her hand, as if she was about to touch Luke, then withdrew at the last second. A ripple of disappointment ran through him.
Maybe that bump on the head had knocked a couple of screws loose.
“Let me get an ice pack for your head,” she said. “And lemonade for everyone. Then we can all cool down and start over.”
Just as she had so many times before when she’d been the marketing consultant for his and Mark’s software company, Anita defused the situation with a few quiet words. They’d brought her in for the launch of the company six years ago, but she’d stayed even when they couldn’t pay her anymore. She’d stayed because she had been a friend.
And for a very brief moment, much more than that for Luke. But then…
He pushed those thoughts away. He wasn’t going to go there, not now, not later. His priority, now more than ever, was Emily. Women, and this woman in particular, didn’t figure into that equation.
Exactly what he’d told Anita, and himself, nearly a year and a half ago. Looking at her now, he needed a refresher course.
Why was she living in Mercy? Why here out of all the thousands of towns in the country? Was she here to rekindle things with him? Or worse, to confront him about the callous way he’d broken off their relationship? He decided not to ask—just in case the answer was one his daughter shouldn’t hear.
His head throbbed where the pan had connected with his skull. “You pack a decent wallop.” He probed the spot gingerly.
Anita turned, smiled. “I went easy on you, too.” Maybe it was just the intimacy of the hallway or the soft glow of the moon on her features, but her smile caused a deep twisting in his gut that he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Anita was here. In his life again. A thousand different emotions, like a shower of fireworks, erupted in his gut.
He should leave now, before he started traveling down a path he knew he shouldn’t take. But his feet kept moving forward, propelling him with a will of their own.
The house was small and they entered the dark kitchen a second later. He reached past Anita and pulled the chain attached to the ceiling-fan light.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Anita said, reaching for his hand at the same time. Their palms collided. Luke jerked back when an almost electric jolt coursed through him, harder and faster than the Teflon blow. The light burst on, making everyone blink.
“It seems to be working fine.” The circular light fixture hanging from the center of the ceiling glowed brightly…maybe a bit too brightly. Then there was a sizzle and a hiss, followed by a loud pop. A shower of sparks and shattered bulb glass rained over them and the small wooden kitchen table.
The room was thrust into darkness again.
“Way to go, Dad,” Emily said.
Anita sighed and brushed the glass off her shoulders and hair. “What is it with men? Why do they always think they know everything?”
“Because we do.” Luke chuckled. “Or at least, we like to pretend