Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [102]
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One Saturday afternoon at the beginning of May, I was sitting on my back porch grading papers and drinking iced tea when the phone rang. I picked it up absently, still concentrating on the pathetic spelling and poor grammar on the page in front of me. My red pen was poised and quivering.
“Jocelyn? Alan Stratton here.”
I absolutely froze. My mouth was open, but no sound was coming out.
“Alan Stratton?” he repeated, sounding uncertain. “From the Egypt tour?”
“Alan,” I managed, voice a little croaky. “Of course I know who you are. I’m just surprised.” I swallowed hard and sat up, scattering papers everywhere. “How are you? I mean, how are you feeling?”
“All recovered,” he said, a little more confident. “I’m back in the United States.”
“That’s great. No side effects? No headaches?” I asked the last a little gingerly. As far as I knew, no one knew I’d been the cause of his head injury.
“Nope, completely back to normal. And I hear I have you to thank for it.”
“Oh, I … oh, no. I didn’t do anything,” I said weakly.
“Not how I heard it.” He paused, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could come by sometime to thank you? Maybe we could even, I don’t know, go to dinner?”
“I’d love that,” I said. Was he actually going to come to Austin? Just to see me? I was suddenly very excited.
“How about tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“If you’ve already got plans, I completely understand,” he said hastily.
“You’re not in town, are you?”
“Actually, yes. In fact, I was going to just drop by your house, but then I decided that was just a little too much like a stalker.”
I was now pacing back and forth, unable to sit. I briefly wondered how he’d found my address, but it didn’t matter. He was here. In town. And he wanted to see me. I felt like one of my students, and not the brightest one at that.
“Jocelyn?”
“One hour.” I squeaked and hung up on him.
I was halfway to the shower before I realized how idiotic I must have sounded, but it was too late. I started the water, then raced to the phone and punched in Kyla’s number.
“Hey,” she answered lazily. She has caller ID, but I wasn’t positive it would have mattered.
“Alan! It’s Alan. He’s coming to take me out.”
“What?” I could hear her sitting up.
“Alan Stratton. He’s here.” I dropped the phone as I pulled my shirt over my head.
“Alan? From Egypt? Are you kidding me?” she was saying as I picked it back up.
“No, really, he just called.” I kicked off my shoes. One of them flew across the room and left a mark on my white wall. I didn’t care.
“When you say here…”
“Here! In Austin. He’s coming over.”
“What the hell are you doing talking to me, you idiot?”
“I’m doing what we swore we’d never do to each other. I’m canceling with you for a man.”
She laughed. “Hell, I’d do it to you in a heartbeat. Just remember, you’ll owe me details later. Specific, sweaty, bodice-ripping details.”
“I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t think he’ll be wearing a bodice.”
She ignored this. “And wear that new sundress. If I find out you met him in those pathetic fat-ass jeans, I’ll slap you into the middle of next week.”
I laughed and hung up, then paused. What was wrong with my jeans? Nevertheless, the sundress it was.
Alan arrived at my door exactly one hour later, looking different somehow. And it wasn’t just the small scar above his right eyebrow. He seemed taller or something. Maybe his eyes were more green than ever. Maybe he just seemed more remote now that he was on my turf and out of the tour setting where I’d come to know him. He seemed to be searching my face, looking for something. I felt suddenly shy.
“Come on in,” I said, remembering my manners. I stepped back and held the door