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52
MINNA SAVICH’S HOUSE
TUESDAY NIGHT
After a dinner of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and an excellent vegetable frittata for Savich, everyone adjourned to the living room. With Savich’s mother and Senator Monroe cheering him on, Sean played a video racing game with his dad that Sherlock had rescued from the house. She stood in the doorway of the living room, her cell against her ear, listening to their logistics expert, Janet Mickelson, who never seemed to run out of new wrinkles in the home repairs, from replacing the old wiring in the kitchen to another week’s delay in shipping the living room draperies she and Dillon had picked out. Sherlock knew she should be taking notes, but she only listened as Janet addressed one problem after another.
“Sherlock, I saved the good news for last, guaranteed to bring a smile. My contractor can start work in the morning, and he promised when he’s done with the painting, there’ll be absolutely no more smoke smell in the house. All of Sean’s new bedroom furniture will be ready for delivery as soon as the painting’s done, exactly what he wanted. So, we’re all on the same page. I’m still hopeful we’ll be done a week before Christmas.” She paused. “Well, unless they delay the inspections, which, alas, is known to happen more often than I’d like.”
The week before Christmasseemed like a perfect new mantra. When Sherlock punched off, she stood a moment in the arched doorway and looked at her mother-in-law, her shoulder touching Robert Monroe’s as she laughed at Sean’s super-serious efforts to beat his father, or rather Magic John. It struck her what a blessing it was to have this time with Dillon’s mom, and to really get to know the senator, who’d been a rock, tossing in the occasional nugget on what to do about this or that problem concerning the house. Sherlock had no doubt Sean was having the time of his life being the only kid in a house with four adults. Not to mention Gabriella, who was helping Minna, picking up Sean from school and shepherding him to all his activities. When they finally moved back home, Sherlock imagined it would take a month to convince Sean he wasn’t the king of the universe. She watched her son clap his hands and chair-dance next to his father. Dillon was distracted, the great part of his brain still focused on what he’d have to do next to keep Rebekah Clarkson, and of course his own family, safe.
When Savich took Sean to bed, he listened with half an ear while his over-the-moon-excited son crowed about beating him. To calm Sean down, Savich sang him a new country-western song that had been floating around in his head the past week about a long-distance truck driver named Ed and a pretty young thing outside Yuma, Arizona. Ed woke up from sleeping with the angels in the middle of the desert, his wallet, his water bottle, and his truck long gone. Sean was out before Ed woke up.
When Sherlock joined him in the larger of Minna’s two guest bedrooms, she found him sitting on one side of the queen-size bed, which was, admittedly, a bit small for the two of them, wearing only his black boxers, his hands clasped between his knees, muttering to himself.
She rubbed his shoulder until she had his attention. “Tonight was good for everyone, Dillon. You needed the distraction to let your brain simmer a bit.”
She leaned down and kissed him. “Time to sleep. Talk about a long day, not to mention the small dollop of excitement. Nothing like a hostage rescue to put an end to it. But it’s over now. Duvall is alive, and MAX is working. You have to close your mind down, stop your angsting, all right? You needn’t worry about Rebekah. Her husband’s with her when Griffin isn’t. She’ll be fine, and we’re all safe for now. Get your very fine self into bed.” Sherlock kissed him again and watched him climb into bed and pull the covers to his chest. She looked down at him, gave him what she hoped was a sexy grin. “I’ll be right with you, gorgeous. I’m thinking Mama needs to make you forget your name.”
She sashayed to the dresser with a mirror hanging above it and started brushing her hair. She heard him humming, a new country-western song. She frowned. “Do you know what I can’t get my brain around, Dillon? How did anyone find out Rebekah knew about the Big Take? Her grandfather made her promise never to tell a soul, and she didn’t. Until last week Rebekah believed the Big Take was only one of his made-up adventures.”
After Sherlock made him forget his name, Savich fell boneless into a deep sleep.
He was lying on his back on a narrow white bed. Blackness surrounded him, cocooned him, but it wasn’t frightening; it was comforting, like resting in his mother’s arms, listening to her heartbeat as she whispered how much she loved him, how she knew he’d be a great man one day. He knew time was passing, but it wasn’t important. The blackness never lightened, always stayed exactly the same, but that was all right. He was one with it, a part of it.
He heard many voices around him, but they didn’t touch him. Only hers did. Rebekah held his hand, and he heard her beloved voice, telling him how much she loved him and missed him. She told him about her studies, how after she earned a master’s degree, she was going to hunt for forged paintings and keep the art world honest. And it might make her rich. He wanted to tell her she already was rich. Hadn’t he left her several million in a trust? But none of that mattered. Rebekah was here, and she was his.
As she held his hand, she repeated to him dozens of adventure stories he’d told her when she was young, wild hair-raising tales he’d invented about his and Nate’s exploits. Nate. Where was Nate? Heknew Nate was gone, gone for a very long time, but he didn’t know where he was. With Miranda? Was that her name? So pretty she was. With his mother? How much time had passed? He didn’t know, didn’t care. His mind settled into a timeless drift.
He heard Rebekah’s voice telling him about the Big Take again, her favorite story, she’d say. He wished he could tell her the Big Take wasn’t only a story, it was real. The poem he’d written and made her memorize, the poem he’d made her promise never to tell another person, wafted through his head, but he couldn’t seem to remember the words. He wished he could tell her he loved her, but he couldn’t. He floated, content, then he heard another voice, close to his face, a voice that said matter-of-factly, “I do wonder if you can hear me, Congressman Clarkson. Can I call you John? Of course I can. You won’t mind, will you, not about anything. Your granddaughter is charming. How she loves to repeat all those stories to you, but it’s time for her to go now.” He felt a warm hand on his forehead, felt the warm hand take his pulse. “But you’ll be fine, just fine. I’ll be staying here with you, John.”
He fell asleep then, rocking in his mother’s warm, strong arms, living in a lullaby.
Savich slowly opened his eyes. He stared into the gray predawn light coming through the window, didn’t know for an instant where he was, then felt Sherlock’s soft breath against his neck. She’d set the dream in motion, told him to let it all simmer. He lightly touched his fingertips to her curls, and she pushed closer. He smiled, kissed her, and whispered into the warm air, “Thank you for that, John Clarkson.”
