more secure set of bookkeeping protocols to reduce the risk of having it happen again.”
I was touched that he’d finally confided in me about his work. “Wow. Sounds like a job for Superman. Good thing they’ve got you to take care of it.”
“Thanks. That’s nice to hear,” he said, then yawned. “Whew. I’m beat. Did they get the alarm in?”
“Yep. The code’s 19481952,” I told him, “the years we were born. I put yours first because it came first.”
“Good idea.” He yawned again. I could picture him in his hotel room, tie loose, eyes drooping, and I missed him.
“Did they test it out?” he asked.
“Did they ever,” I said, remembering the earsplitting racket it made. “You never heard such noise. The hippies probably thought it was a tornado alert.”
“Good.” He yawned again. “Oh, speaking of the hippies, that police captain said he checked them out, and we don’t have anything to worry about.”
“How could he be so sure, so fast?” I asked, skeptical.
“Don’t know, but the guy was adamant. He did say he’d have a patrol car come by to check our house as often as they can, though, just in case. So I guess that’s it.”
“Okay, then.” I still had my misgivings, but caught myself starting to nod off in the pause that followed.
“Guess I’d better go,” Greg said. “Want to get into the office by six.”
“Be sure you eat well, honey,” I told him. “You have to keep up your strength.”
“I won’t be able to find cooking as good as yours,” he said, “but I’ll make sure to eat.”
“Sweet dreams,” I told him, just the way I always did when he was there beside me.
“Sweet dreams.” He hung up, and I went back to sleep, safe in the confines of the alarm system.
Greg called every night at first, but we quickly ran out of things to tell each other. Apparently, he couldn’t discuss anything else about the client. He was working a killer schedule, and I was keeping busy with the house. Not a lot to talk about there.
So we lapsed into talking only every few days, which was okay with me, because I knew he was putting in long hours instead of hanging around Chicago alone with nothing to do with his evenings.
I managed fine the first week, but by Tuesday of the second, I’d run out of things to do. I’d scrubbed my poor house to smithereens, ironed everything I could get my hands on, including the sheets, and discovered that churches and charities don’t usually do much in the summer, so service work was out till fall. My freezer was full of home-cooked food, and there was not so much as a single weed or shred of crabgrass in my lawn or flower beds.
I read, of course. I’d always loved to read, but after the third or fourth book, I started having this nagging feeling that I should be doing something. For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t have anybody to take care of, and it didn’t feel good, I can tell you.
I’d always been the doer. I had no idea how to be a be-er.
I actually considered going over to Mama’s and cleaning, no matter what she said, but she’d probably have a nervous breakdown, for real, so I didn’t.
As for the hippies, criminals or not, I wasn’t inclined to make any further overtures. They hadn’t even returned my dishes, much less called to thank me or come to visit, so all was quiet on their side of the street. I hadn’t even seen them since Greg left, but I knew they weren’t out of town. The Vanagon was gone at intervals—I sometimes heard its beetley retreat—but the only other sign of life from their place was charcoal smoke and the smell of barbecued chicken from behind it on Sunday afternoon. I wasn’t jealous. Their backyard got the full force of the afternoon sun, so it must have been hot as blue blazes back there.
At sixes and sevens on Tuesday afternoon, I decided, late, to drive down to my favorite fabric shop in Atlanta for some material to make drapes for the guest bedroom, the last bare
I was touched that he’d finally confided in me about his work. “Wow. Sounds like a job for Superman. Good thing they’ve got you to take care of it.”
“Thanks. That’s nice to hear,” he said, then yawned. “Whew. I’m beat. Did they get the alarm in?”
“Yep. The code’s 19481952,” I told him, “the years we were born. I put yours first because it came first.”
“Good idea.” He yawned again. I could picture him in his hotel room, tie loose, eyes drooping, and I missed him.
“Did they test it out?” he asked.
“Did they ever,” I said, remembering the earsplitting racket it made. “You never heard such noise. The hippies probably thought it was a tornado alert.”
“Good.” He yawned again. “Oh, speaking of the hippies, that police captain said he checked them out, and we don’t have anything to worry about.”
“How could he be so sure, so fast?” I asked, skeptical.
“Don’t know, but the guy was adamant. He did say he’d have a patrol car come by to check our house as often as they can, though, just in case. So I guess that’s it.”
“Okay, then.” I still had my misgivings, but caught myself starting to nod off in the pause that followed.
“Guess I’d better go,” Greg said. “Want to get into the office by six.”
“Be sure you eat well, honey,” I told him. “You have to keep up your strength.”
“I won’t be able to find cooking as good as yours,” he said, “but I’ll make sure to eat.”
“Sweet dreams,” I told him, just the way I always did when he was there beside me.
“Sweet dreams.” He hung up, and I went back to sleep, safe in the confines of the alarm system.
Greg called every night at first, but we quickly ran out of things to tell each other. Apparently, he couldn’t discuss anything else about the client. He was working a killer schedule, and I was keeping busy with the house. Not a lot to talk about there.
So we lapsed into talking only every few days, which was okay with me, because I knew he was putting in long hours instead of hanging around Chicago alone with nothing to do with his evenings.
I managed fine the first week, but by Tuesday of the second, I’d run out of things to do. I’d scrubbed my poor house to smithereens, ironed everything I could get my hands on, including the sheets, and discovered that churches and charities don’t usually do much in the summer, so service work was out till fall. My freezer was full of home-cooked food, and there was not so much as a single weed or shred of crabgrass in my lawn or flower beds.
I read, of course. I’d always loved to read, but after the third or fourth book, I started having this nagging feeling that I should be doing something. For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t have anybody to take care of, and it didn’t feel good, I can tell you.
I’d always been the doer. I had no idea how to be a be-er.
I actually considered going over to Mama’s and cleaning, no matter what she said, but she’d probably have a nervous breakdown, for real, so I didn’t.
As for the hippies, criminals or not, I wasn’t inclined to make any further overtures. They hadn’t even returned my dishes, much less called to thank me or come to visit, so all was quiet on their side of the street. I hadn’t even seen them since Greg left, but I knew they weren’t out of town. The Vanagon was gone at intervals—I sometimes heard its beetley retreat—but the only other sign of life from their place was charcoal smoke and the smell of barbecued chicken from behind it on Sunday afternoon. I wasn’t jealous. Their backyard got the full force of the afternoon sun, so it must have been hot as blue blazes back there.
At sixes and sevens on Tuesday afternoon, I decided, late, to drive down to my favorite fabric shop in Atlanta for some material to make drapes for the guest bedroom, the last bare
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