Blue Heron: The Perfect Match Part 10

"Everything's fine."

She could probably hate this guy, if they spent much more time together. With superhuman eyelid effort, Honor managed to unstick her lashes as Tom groped under the car, then straightened up and handed her the keys. "There you are," he said, his eyes filled with laughter. Gray eyes.

Kind of a gorgeous color, really. The lake in November, dark and deep.

"So you're on a date with Droog, are you?" he asked. "Great guy."

"Yes," she said briskly. She'd almost forgotten about the Count. "Droog, sorry about that. Let's get going, shall we?"

"Have fun," Tom said.

"Tom, I veel see you tomorrow," Droog said, opening the door of his rusting, maroon-colored Dodge Omni.

"Thank you," she said to Tom. He smiled over his shoulder as he headed for his car, and d.a.m.n. That was a Mack truck of a smile. And by the way, he was not built like Ye Typical Math Teacher, no sir. Broad shoulders. Rather perfect a.s.s.

Then he glanced back again, and Honor was abruptly aware that she was still staring after him. He c.o.c.ked his eyebrow as if knowing she was ogling him. He was probably used to it, she thought as a young (and beautiful) woman cantered to his side. Why didn't he marry that one, huh? Why meet Honor if women were throwing themselves at him?

The man was not particularly likable. Droog, on the other hand, thought she was luffly. It didn't make sense to let Down Under start getting all tingly and warm when the man causing those feelings had been such a boor.

"DO YOU LIKE bowling?" Droog asked a half hour later as they sat in the little restaurant. "I luff eet. Dee crash of dee pins, dee joy on the dee faces of dee cheeldren." He smiled. "Perhaps we may try it sometime."

There would be no bowling.

Honor had definitely ruled out marriage and children with Droog Dragul. In addition to the faint fear that he was going to throw his head back and start howling, or start counting things. (One...one pointy knife! Two! Two major blood vessels in dee neck!) Droog had wiped down everything at their table with antibacterial wipes he produced from his purse, including their chairs and the floor around them. "Now I heff created clean s.p.a.ce," he said, smiling.

Dexter the serial killer leaped to mind.

Then Droog ordered water and took a sandwich from his purse. Baloney on white bread.

It was a long eighty-three minutes.

To his credit, when he asked her for a second date, Droog took her rejection well. "Ah, yes, I understand," he said. "Vee don't have the cleek."

"The cleek?" she asked.

He snapped his fingers. "The cleek."

"Oh. Right. The click." Honor forced a smile. "But it was very nice meeting you, Droog."

"And you, as vell, Honor. Good night."

So. No potential husband. Maybe she'd call Jeremy and ask about sperm banks.

It's just that she wanted a husband. A nice man would be enough. He didn't have to be Brogan-all that and turquoise eyes, too-he just had to be...decent. And normal. Not someone who brought his own food to a restaurant.

Too bad Tom Barlow had been such a twit.

CHAPTER SIX.

"OH, TOM. IT'S you. h.e.l.lo. Take off your shoes, don't forget."

He obeyed. "Janice. How are you?"

"Fine, fine. Come on in." She held the door open, and Tom entered, ignoring the sinking feeling he always had when he was in the home of Charlie's grandparents. The living room was a pinkish color, making him feel as if he were sitting inside a salmon. His feet sank into the plush pink carpet as dozens of sightless eyes stared at him. Creepy, those dolls. Janice collected them-hundreds of them, all the same size, dressed in everything from a frilly bikini to a wedding dress, sat in specially made gla.s.s cupboards like a tiny, evil army, ready to break out of their bondage and attack anything male.

Poor Charlie, having to live with all these dolls. Tom could only imagine what the boy would say to his friends. Not that he had friends who came over. Or any friends, for all Tom could tell.

"And where's Walter today?" Tom asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "Is he about?"

"No, he's down at the barber shop. Hiding, and I can't blame him." Janice eyed his crotch, as was her habit. Uncomfortable, to say the least. He was always a bit afraid to turn his back on her. "You're good to come, Tom," she said. "You don't have to do this, you know. You're not obligated."

"No, no, I love spending time with him." Janice raised her eyes from his groin long enough to give him a dubious look. Right, so that might be pus.h.i.+ng it a bit. "And he can always visit me any time, stay over."

"You're a saint," she said. "Sit."

Tom obeyed, the plastic furniture cover squeaking as he sat.

"He's so sullen. He barely speaks to us, and why, I have no idea, after all we've done for him."

"Yes, you've been wonderful," Tom lied.

She gave a martyred smile. "It's what Jesus would do. Well, you must want to be on your way. Charlie!" Tom jumped at the abrupt s.h.i.+ft in volume. "Tom's here!"

There was no answer.

"I'll get him." Janice sighed. "He's locked in that room of his and never answers." With that, she tromped up the stairs, leaving Tom alone with the doll army.

It was impossible not to look at them. Today, the doll dressed in the flamenco outfit seemed especially hostile. "p.i.s.s off," Tom whispered. No wonder Charlie was in a bad mood all the time.

And speaking of, here was the boy himself. "Hallo, mate!" Tom said, standing up. "How are you?"

It was almost a shock to the eyes, the black of Charlie-clothing, hair, nails and mood. At some point last year during what seemed to be a particularly horrifying p.u.b.erty, Charlie had turned punk, or Goth, or whatever they were calling it these days. Baggy black clothes, black eyeliner, black fingernail polish. There were a few of that type at Wickham, shuffling around campus, their chains rattling, but they seemed like happy enough kids.

Charlie, on the other hand...

He didn't look at Tom, just walked past, out the front door, as cheery as if he were on his way to get a lethal injection.

"Right," Tom said to Janice. "I'll bring him back around seven, then?"

"If you can stand him for that long," she said, staring at his junk.

"You, um, enjoy your time."

He walked out to the car, where Charlie was already seated, earbuds in place, starting ahead with the long-suffering expression only a fourteen-year-old boy could manage-Look at me, surrounded by these w.a.n.kers, counting the minutes till I can get away.

"How've you been?" Tom asked, getting in and starting the car. No answer from his companion, though Tom could hear the tinny sound of...well, calling it music wasn't really fair. "School going all right?" No answer. "Buckle up, mate, be a good lad." And no answer still. "Charlie, come on."

Charlie said nothing, just buckled up, rolling his eyes as he did so.

"So I thought I'd take you into town, do something fun, then back to my place for dinner-how's that sound?"

No answer.

And he had the kid for four more hours.

There seemed to be a new piercing through the cartilage of Charlie's left ear. Looked infected from here, the skin angry and red from the safety pin stuck through it. "Make sure you clean that properly," Tom couldn't stop himself from saying.

He doggedly kept up the chatter: the weather, the town, the lake, the Buffalo Bills (he had no idea if Charlie was interested in football, and he himself wasn't, but you never knew) until they pulled into the parking lot. And finally, the boy spoke.

"What are we doing here?" His voice, once so angelic, had changed over the past few months to a respectable baritone. Still a bit hard to get used to, that voice. Like when the little girl starts speaking with the demon voice in The Exorcist.

"It's a gym," Tom answered.

Charlie cut him a glance so filled with disgust it was hard to recognize the boy who'd once jumped into his arms.

"Right, right, the sign does tell you that, doesn't it?" Tom cleared his throat. "Thought we could check it out."

The truth was, Tom had no idea what to do with Charlie, whose only interests seemed to be terrifying music sung by Satan and body-piercing. The days of kites, bike-riding and make-your-own sundaes were over.

But Tom had boxed for years, gone through university on a scholars.h.i.+p, in fact, and made it through several regional champions.h.i.+p matches. It had been a bit of a surprise that Manningsport had its very own boxing gym, an old-school type of place filled with the smell of sweat and leather and the rhythmic smacks of men and women punching the bags or jumping rope. He'd joined the first week he moved here.

"I'm not going in there," Charlie muttered, looking out the window.

"I can't leave you in the car."

"Yes, you can."

"It's cold. Besides, I've got you till seven, so we've got to find something to do."

He waited, and after a second, Charlie opened the door and shuffled inside the gym. Tom followed, gym bag in hand.

"It stinks in here," Charlie p.r.o.nounced, the earbuds still in place.

"It smells like a gym, that's all. Come on, mate, give it a try."

"I'm not your mate. That sounds so gay." His voice was loud.

Tom tried not to clench his teeth. "Where I'm from, it means friend."

"You're not my friend, either. And you're not my father, or my stepfather, and I hate it when you call me your stepson."

"Right. At any rate, I thought we'd give boxing a shot. No harm, is there? It wouldn't hurt for you to have some life skills. I got you some trunks, a helmet, a pair of gloves-it'll be fun."

"It's not fun!"

"And keep your voice down, all right?" He pulled out one of Charlie's earbuds, and the kid reacted like Tom had slapped him.

"Don't touch me! I don't have to do what you say!"

Oh, fantastic, someone was coming over. Someone with impressive muscles, a military-looking tattoo, no less, and a bada.s.s look on his face.

"Problem here?" the guy said.

"Not unless you count moody teenagers as problems," Tom said, forcing a smile.

The smile was not returned. Nor did the man look sympathetic to Tom's plight. "Everything all right?" he asked.

"No," Charlie said, rolling his eyes. Tom almost wished they'd get stuck, the way his own father had always promised.

"I'm Police Chief Cooper," the man said to Charlie. b.l.o.o.d.y wonderful. "How do you know this man?"

Soon, Tom imagined, he'd be in a cell for attempted child abduction, or worse. Though now that he thought of it, being sent back to England-or prison-didn't actually seem so bad, when compared with dealing with the kid.

Charlie didn't answer.

"I'm a friend of the family," Tom said.

The chief didn't seem impressed. "Is that true?" he asked.

"I don't know," muttered Charlie.

"Would you like me to take you home?" the chief offered.

"No." Charlie said it in the way he said everything these days: with thinly veiled disgust.

"And what's your name, sir?" the cop asked, and Tom found himself giving his name, address, Janice's phone number and waiting as Chief Cooper verified the information and then called the police station to run a check of his criminal records, of which there were none. Finally, he put away his phone, then offered Tom his hand. "Sorry," he said. "Can't be too careful."

"No worries. Thanks for checking up." Perhaps you can do a cavity search next time, mate. Cheerio.

The chief nodded and walked back to the bag from which he'd come, and began throwing some jabs.

"I'm not boxing," Charlie said. "It's so stupid."

"Fine," Tom said. "Then sit here and watch. And don't walk out, or I'll have to call the nice officer over and report you as a missing child."

Tom went into the locker room, changed out his teacher's clothes and into boxing trunks and a faded Manchester United T-s.h.i.+rt. Sighed at his reflection in the mirror, then went out again.

He'd reserved the ring for an hour, naively thinking that Charlie might welcome a little instruction in self-defense. Back in the day, they used to pretend to spar. Back in the day when Charlie loved him. "Into the ring, mate," he said, keeping his voice cheerful.

Charlie obeyed, his baggy pants making it difficult for him to get between the ropes. "All right, now, I thought I'd show you a few basic jabs and punches," Tom said. "First thing, fighting stance. Relaxed, yeah?" He demonstrated, holding his hands up by his head, feet apart. "Keep your weight on the b.a.l.l.s of your feet, because you want to be able to move. This is your s.p.a.ce, and you own it."