Did she just include herself in his crazy plan? Yup, she had. And he hadn't blinked, either, so he'd been thinking the same thing. Well, hell, if she was going to be his fictional heroine anyway, why not? It could be fun. Not quite Nick and Nora Charles ... but, as long as they seemed to go from trouble to trouble now anyway, why not make it a formal agreement?
"Collect fees, you mean? Not necessarily, no. Does that upset you?"
"Not necessarily, no," she repeated, still hung up on a name. Titles always drove her nuts. She'd find one she liked and Bernie would nix it. She'd give Bernie a dozen alternatives, and she'd nix them. That's why she'd called her books about Alex The Saint Just Mysteries. The title was all hers, and nobody else would have it, Bernie couldn't really fight it. Anything she could do to not end up with another sappy title like Love's Lustful Embers or Miranda's Sweet Seduction. Gawd! How many people never read a good romance novel because they didn't want to carry around a book with such a sappy title, and with a nursing mother cover to boot? "Wait, I've got it! The Samaritan. You like?"
"Very biblical," Alex agreed. "We'll consider it. For now, perhaps you should consider coming back to bed. We've another long day in front of us tomorrow, one way or the other. Speaking with your father, for one, as I was never able to get around to that today. Avoiding our friend on the go-cart, for two."
"Visiting all those women from the W.B.B., for three. I'm not looking forward to that one, although I guess you are. Laying on the charm, and all of that."
"One does what one does best," he told her, helping her to her feet and then sweeping her up high into his arms, returning to the bed. "And practice, I firmly believe, keeps one perfect ..."
Chapter Twenty
Saint Just tucked Sterling's collar over his wooly scarf and gave the lapels a small tug. "Outfitted quite to a turn, my friend, and ready for all that winter can toss at you. Do you mind entertaining Evan for an hour or so, while Maggie and I try once again to find a way to work ourselves through this muddle?"
Sterling pulled his earflaps down and snapped the strap beneath his chin. "Not a bit of it, Saint Just. Evan and I are rubbing along famously. And there's nothing like a brisk walk on the boards, the sea air in our faces, to clear a man's head, and all of that."
"On the boards?" Saint Just smiled. "There was a time, you know, when we would think that meant to trod on the stage, emoting, rather than strolling along the seaside in search of any small shop that might have stayed open beyond the season. Our slang has changed, Sterling. So much of us has changed."
"But Maggie isn't to know that," Sterling said, nodding his head. "I remember. I'm to dub my mummer, correct?"
"Keep your mouth firmly closed on the subject, yes. Ah, Evan, you're looking much more the thing this morning."
"What thing?" Evan Kelly asked as he walked toward the small foyer, looking confused—a circumstance not entirely caused by Saint Just's words, or even the man's current legal and familial problems. Alas, for the man, since first Saint Just met him, had always borne that same nervous, faintly baffled expression. Without Alicia Kelly, the man seemed rudderless, adrift. Perhaps, as he might propose to Maggie at some point, her father needed his wife's firm hand.
"You look remarkably fine this morning," Saint Just expanded, helping Evan into his heavy tweed wool coat. "You don't mind accompanying Sterling on his daily exercise?"
"If he doesn't mind being seen with me, no," Evan said, and then sighed. "Do you English know that saying—he looks like he's just lost his last friend? Well, that's me. Lost my last friend. Every friend I ever had. They either think I killed Walter, or they don't want to be seen with the guy everyone else thinks killed Walter. You know what that means, Alex?"
"No, Evan," Saint Just said kindly. "What does that mean?"
"It means I never really had any friends. I thought I did. I thought I had lots of them. But I don't. Not if none of them will stick by me. My wife, my kids—except for Maggie, and maybe Maureen a little—my bowling buddies, the guys I have coffee with every morning up at The Last Sail? You name 'em, and they're gone. Fair-weather friends, fair-weather family."
Then he turned to smile much too brightly at Sterling. "Ready to go?"
"Evan, a moment if you will?" Saint Just said as Sterling, looking perilously close to tears, opened the door. "I'd like to show you something."
Evan stuffed his hands in his pockets, came out with a pair of obviously hand-knitted mittens. Love was in every stitch, Saint Just concluded, and talent in every fourth or fifth row of those stitches.
"When, Evan, you come upon one of these people—these fair-weather friends—I want you to do this. I will be you, and you will be the boorish idiot who dares to judge you. Watch carefully please."
Saint Just turned his back, and then turned around again, walked forward two paces and then stopped, as though suddenly aware of Evan's presence.
He opened his mouth, just slightly, breathed a silent ahhh, and then looked straight into Evan's eyes for precisely two seconds. He then pointedly raked his gaze downward, to Evan's toes, and slowly upward once more, again looking into Evan's eyes. Closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again, continued what was a look completely devoid of recognition. "So sorry, I momentarily mistook you for someone I once admired."
Then he lifted his chin slightly, turned his head to the left, and walked on, all the way past Evan, to the door.
He wheeled about on his heels, smiling. "Can you do that, Evan?"
Sterling clapped his hands in approval. "Not the cut direct. A cut above the cut direct. A combination of the cut direct and a verbal insult meant to depress any man's pretensions. Bravo, Saint Just, bravo! The quizzing glass to your eye would make it even better, as I've seen you do it, but good enough for Ocean City, and all of that."
"Thank you, Sterling," Saint Just said, and took a small bow. "You must strike first, however, Evan. Take the initiative, remove any chance of being snubbed before you deliver your insult."
"I don't know, Alex. I think I could ... maybe? I'm mad enough, I really am. I may not look it, but I'm really, really mad. If I looked more like you, there's maybe a chance I could pull it off ..."
"Done and done," Saint Just said, reaching for his sword cane and tossing it to the man. "Strike a pose for me, Evan. Legs slightly apart, the cane between them—no, not that close to your body. Ah, better. Lean one hand on top of the other—first ridding yourself of those mittens, please. Lovely as they are, I believe they do lack a certain elegance. Yes, much better. Now gaze out at the winter-dark sea, your thoughts lofty, even heroic in nature."
He held out his hand, motioning for Evan to raise his chin. "Higher ... higher ... and perfect. You see it don't you, Sterling? Appearance may not be everything, but it is far superior to walking about with one's head hanging down, one's feet shuffling. Never look the victim, Evan. Always, always, the warrior."
Evan kept his chin high as he turned for the door, forgetting to move the cane and nearly tripping over it. But as he passed through the doorway he took a moment to turn, look at Saint Just. "I'll do the best I can. I have to live here, don't I? I have to stop hiding."
"You are innocent of any crime, Evan," Saint Just reminded him. "Not a victim of a mistaken police, but an innocent man, unafraid of any charges because you know that, in the end, you will prevail. Head high, chest out—the world is not on your shoulders, Evan. You walk on top of the world!"