Free Slow Hands by Debra Dixon Page B

at the scene objectively, laying bets with herself as to what would draw his attention first. The decor was early garage sale. Her laundry spanned the long hallway in piles haphazardly sorted by color. Counted cross-stitch paraphernalia from an unfinished project littered the coffee table, as did a collection of soft drink cans and plastic microwave dinner plates.
Maybe she could say she was recycling?
    In a whimsical mood she’d written her name in the dust on the top of the television. A string of red lights in the shape of chili peppers still hung cheerfully around the outline of her hallway. She’d forgotten to take them down after Christmas. All of these things stood out amid the general clutter, but the one overwhelming embarrassment was the black lace bra Slick alternately attacked and dragged around the room. Clare narrowed her eyes and plotted cat revenge.
    “Cute cat,” Sam said, and enjoyed the show. Elation shot through him. He felt like an amateur slob in the presence of a master. Raising his head heavenward, Sam murmured gratefully, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.” Then more loudly and with enjoyment in everyword, he said, “Clare McGuire, you hypocrite. You’re not as perfect as you pretend. You’re a first class slob.”
    “It’s
my
house. I like it this way,” she said stiffly. She did. When she moved away from her aunt and uncle, she decided she’d have a home, not a house filled with “things.” A living, breathing home that swallowed her with welcome when she walked in the door. A home that didn’t judge her by how neatly she kept the medicine cabinet. A home that said “I belong to you.”
    Clare held open the door. “Now, if you’re through laughing at my expense, could you take the papers to the Dumpster and leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.”
    Together they said, “Ellie’s coming.”
    A muscle twitched at the corner of Clare’s mouth. The grin on Sam’s face broadened as he looked pointedly around. “Get some plastic explosives and save yourself some time.”
    Clare refused to laugh or even admit that Sam had lightened her mood. She ignored the connection her mind made between seeing Sam and feeling happy. “Thanks for the household hint, Tucker, but I don’t think it will come to that. If you really want to help me, say good night.”
    Clearing a space on the coffee table, Sam dumped the papers. “I really want to help. What can I do first?”
    “I’ve already told you. Take those papers to the Dumpster!” she said in exasperation.
    “I’m not stupid, Clare. Once you get me out the door, you won’t let me back in. Stop being so stubborn.” He looked around again, but without any disapproval in his expression. “You need all the help you can get. What time is Ellie coming?”
    Clare slammed the door and leaned against it. Sam had a way of slicing right to the problem. “Tomorrow.”
    “When tomorrow?”
    “Seven forty-five.”
    “In the morning?” Sam asked as he gingerly lifted the top of a cardboard pizza box.
    “I don’t know. Joshua didn’t find out,” Clare snapped, suddenly cross. Pushing away from the door, she scooped up the pizza box with enough force to smack the lid shut. Clare deposited the box in a large, dark-green plastic lawn bag beside the overstuffed armchair.
    “That’s not true,” she corrected him. “It wasn’t Joshua’s fault. Ellie didn’t bother to tell him. I called the airline and there’s a flight arriving at seven thirty-five A.M. and one arriving at seven-fifty P.M. But nothing at seven forty-five!” She gave the box a good shove to flatten the other trash, and under her breath she added, “Ellie never remembers details. She never had to.”
    “Hey,” Sam called softly, and swung her around to face him. This time he was sure he heard resentment in her voice, and he wasn’t going to let her go until he had some answers to the questions that had begun to nag his subconscious. “What did Ellie do to you