Page 2 of Entranced
It was too early for there to be much traffic. Here in the downtown area it would be a rare thing for her to pass another jogger. If she’d chosen any of the beaches, it would have been a different matter. But Mel preferred to run alone.
Her muscles began to warm. A thin layer of sweat gleamed healthily on her skin. She increased her pace slightly, falling into a familiar rhythm that had become as automatic as breathing.
For the first mile, she kept her mind empty, letting herself observe. A car with a faulty muffler rattled by, with no more than a token hesitation at a stop sign.
An ’82 Plymouth sedan, dark blue. The mental list was just to keep in practice. Dented driver’s door. California license Able Charlie Robert 2289.
Someone was lying facedown on the grass of the park. Even as Mel broke her stride, he sat up, stretched and switched on a portable radio.
College student hitchhiking cross-country, she decided, picking up her pace again even as she made a note of his backpack … blue, with an American flag on the flap … and his hair color … brown … and …Name That Tune, she thought as the music began to fade behind her.
Bruce Springsteen. “Cover Me.”
Not too shabby, Mel thought with a grin as she rounded a corner.
She could smell bread from the bakery. A fine, yeasty good-morning scent. And roses. She drew them in—though she would have suffered torture before admitting she had a weakness for flowers. Trees moved gently in the early breeze, and if she concentrated, really concentrated, she could just scent the sea.
And it was good, so very good, to feel strong and aware and alone. It was good to know these streets and to know she belonged here. That she could stay here. That there would be no midnight rambles in a battered station wagon at her mother’s whim.
Time to go, Mary Ellen. Time to head out. I’ve just got a feeling we should head north for a while.
And so they would go, she and the mother she adored, the mother who would always be more of a child than the daughter who huddled on the ripped and taped front seat beside her. The headlights would cut down the road, leading the way to a new place, a new school, new people.
But they would never settle, never have time to become a part of anything but the road. Soon her mother would get what she always called “Those itchy feet.” And off they would go again.
Why had it always felt as if they were runningaway, not runningto?
That, of course, was all over. Alice Sutherland had herself a cozy mobile home—which would take Mel another twenty-six months to pay off—and she was happy as a clam, bopping from state to state and adventure to adventure.
As for Mel, she was sticking. True, L.A. hadn’t worked out, but she’d gotten a taste of what it was like to put down roots. And she’d had two very frustrating and very educational years on the LAPD. Two years that had taught her that law enforcement was just her cup of tea, even if writing parking tickets and filling out forms was not.
So she had moved north and opened Sutherland Investigations. She still filled out forms—often by the truckload—but they wereherforms.
She’d reached the halfway point of her run and was circling back. As always, she felt that quick rush of satisfaction at the knowledge that her body responded so automatically. It hadn’t always been so—not when she was a child, too tall, too gangly, with elbows and knees that just begged to be banged and scraped. It had taken time and discipline, but she was twenty-eight now, and she’d gotten her body under control. Yes, sir. It had never been a disappointment to Mel that she hadn’t bloomed and rounded. Slim and sleek was more efficient. And the long, coltish legs that had once invited names like Stretch and Beanpole were now strong, athletic and—she could admit privately—worth a second look.
It was then that she heard the baby crying. It was a fussy, impatient sound that bounded through an open window of the apartment building beside her. Her mood, buoyed by the run, plummeted.
The baby. Rose’s baby. Sweet, pudgy-cheeked David.
Mel continued to run. The habit was too ingrained to be broken. But her mind filled with images.
Rose, harmless, slightly dippy Rose, with her fuzzy red hair and her easy smile. Even with Mel’s natural reserve, it had been impossible to refuse her friendship.
Rose worked as a waitress in the little Italian restaurant two blocks from Mel’s office. It had been easy to fall into a casual conversation—particularly since Rose did most of the talking—over a plate of spaghetti or acup of cappuccino.
Mel remembered admiring the way Rose hustled trays, even though her pregnant belly strained against her apron. And she remembered Rose telling her how happy she and her Stan were to be expecting their first child.
Mel had even been invited to the baby shower, and though she’d been certain she would feel awkward and out of place at such a gathering, she’d enjoyed listening to the oohs and aahs over the tiny clothes and the stuffed animals. She’d taken a liking to Stan, too, with his shy eyes and slow smiles.
When David had been born, eight months ago, she’d gone to the hospital to visit. As she’d stared at the babies sleeping, bawling or wriggling in their clear-sided cribs, she’d understood why people prayed and struggled and sacrificed to have children.
They were so perfect. So perfectly lovely.
When she’d left, she was happy for Rose and Stan. And lonelier than she’d ever been in her life.
It had become a habit for her to drop by their apartment from time to time with a little toy for David. As an excuse, of course, an excuse to play with him for an hour. She’d fallen more than a little in love with him, so she hadn’t felt foolish exclaiming over his first tooth, or being astounded when he learned to crawl.
Then that frantic phone call two months before. Rose’s voice, shrill and nearly incoherent.
