CHAPTER TWELVE

Deirdre Claire O’Brien had been through the ringer in the past three days. A pretty name, most people thought, although she much preferred “Didi” to her more formal Christian name. “Didi” had a warm, friendly sound to it. When she was a teenager, she’d explored the meaning of her name and found Deirdre translated as divinely sorrowful.

She’d read all about how in Celtic legend, Deirdre died of a broken heart. Lovely Deirdre was unwillingly betrothed to King Culhain. She found her true love, Naoise, and married him instead. She and her lover were subsequently exiled and forever forbidden to return. When they attempted to come home, the evil king lured her new husband into a trap and ruthlessly murdered him. A despairing Deirdre, imprisoned by the king, killed herself rather than marry King Culhain.

How tragic was that? Thank goodness, at least “Claire” meant something good—“clear, bright, or famous”—and the O’Brien family motto was “Strength from Above.” That sounded good, too. In the past few days, she’d gladly have given up “famous and bright” for a little more strength and a little less sorrow.

Monday morning came much too early. Weary in brain, body, and spirit, Didi needed time to recover from her wild weekend. Her mind was mush, her body as wilted as a wet wonton, and her strength depleted. All she wanted to do was crawl under the covers like a frightened feline, or maybe she’d fly away to Fiji on a permanent vacation. Since she’d be worthless at work, she called in and took the next couple of days off. She needed some time to herself.

Clad in flannel pajamas and soft slippers, she moped around the house. She turned on a morning talk show but after a moment shut it off. She grabbed the novel she’d been reading from the end table and curled up on the couch, but her gaze kept sliding off the page. She fixed herself some toast and scrambled eggs and listened to sad songs. Sniffling, she coiled up in a ball and cried.

An hour or two later, she stirred from her lethargy and inspected her apartment as if for the first time. Her place was a mess. A real mess. It was time to get up off her sorry posterior and put her life in order.

Gently, she lifted the sleeping Maisie from her side and placed her on a couch cushion. Didi wandered into the kitchen and grinned at the magnet stuck on her refrigerator.

I confess I have no problem with dust bunnies.

They’re good company, I’ve named most of them,
and they agree with everything I say.

Not today. She wanted to brighten up her space and clear away the dust and the clutter.

She threw on a pair of shorts, a worn t-shirt, and some rubber gloves. Back in the kitchen, a small pile of dishes sat in the sink and a couple of dried food flecks marred the counter. Getting down on her hands and knees, she surveyed the floor from a “dust bunny” point of view. Apparently, her kitchen floor had given birth to a full warren of the critters, and a good sweeping and vacuuming were in order.

She worked on clearing and wiping down the counters, cleaning out the greenish things that were not supposed to be green in the refrigerator, and tossing away the trash. When she was finished, she was appalled she’d filled up an entire bag of garbage. Next, she mopped and scrubbed the grubby floor. The citrus scent was invigorating, and a shiny expanse of linoleum lifted her mood.

Her sparkling kitchen glowed. With gently used appliances, satiny maple cabinets, and a wide double window over the white porcelain sink, the vintage kitchen had been what had sold her on the duplex. The rarely used oven was clean, but Didi scoured the stovetop and wiped under the burners. She rinsed all of the dishes that had accumulated since Friday and ran her cherished dishwasher, even though it wasn’t jammed full.

When she’d returned from the youth rally the night before, she’d been shocked to see her fridge filled with food. Suzy had left her a mood-lifting card as well as roast chicken, apples, grapes, salad veggies, and her favorite rye bread. Didi was so grateful she could have bawled. Friends like that were good to have.

Since she was already in the kitchen, Didi prepared a tasty chicken salad. She added grapes, celery, walnuts, and low-fat mayonnaise and mixed the concoction with large chunks of chicken breast. On her list of things to cut out were high-calorie snacks, so she arranged some apples and grapes in a glass bowl on the counter. No scrounging for whatever she could find allowed.

She surveyed her newly scrubbed kitchen and squared her shoulders, inspired to tackle the rest of the apartment. The bathroom took quite a while to clean, but when she was done, the toilet, claw-footed tub, and rose-colored tile gleamed.

As she retrieved the vacuum cleaner from the closet, Didi spotted a fleeing ball of fur running for cover. Maisie and electrical appliances did not see eye to eye, and the anxious cat headed for her safe place under the bed. Didi would make it up to her later.

Her 1930s duplex wasn’t large, but she’d always liked the layout and appreciated the spacious feel of the upstairs apartment. The large living room/dining room combo had brightly colored area rugs over hardwood, and Didi spent some time propelling the Electrolux under the furniture and into the corners. With the vacuuming finished, she straightened up the room, smoothed out the wadded up maroon throw on the sofa, and carried a soda can and teacup back to the kitchen. Magazines and books stacked helter-skelter on the coffee table were tidied, the upholstery de-furred and de-fuzzed. Holy cow, or was that holy cat?

Moving down the hallway, she assessed the small master bedroom. At first glimpse, things didn’t seem too bad in there…until she got to her closet. The storage area needed a complete overhaul, but today she contented herself with doing the basics. She hung up the pile of clothing that hadn’t made the grade yesterday, sorted the shoes, and placed them side by side with their mates.

She checked under the bed to make sure Maisie was safe and continued into the second, much smaller, guestroom. She did try to keep the largely unused room in “ready” condition in case she had an unexpected guest. The room was the ideal spot for Maisie’s cat tree. A thorough vacuuming of that very important piece of furniture was long overdue.

After a great deal of hard work, Didi admired her handiwork. The elusive mood to clean hadn’t struck her in a while, and even though the exertion had left her with an aching back, she was pleased with herself for taking advantage of the energy spurt. While she’d been working, she’d done several loads of laundry, stowed all of her clean clothes away, and slipped April-fresh sheets on the bed. She’d even watered her neglected spider plant. Her home looked better than it had in a long time. The cleaning binge had the added benefit of keeping her mind off Kevin. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of her labors, her mind free of cobwebs and clutter.

All out of oomph, Didi sat at the bar with a glass of iced tea and the remains of a chicken salad sandwich. She’d had little quiet time since Friday. She’d never retrieved her answering machine messages. She ambled into the bedroom to tackle the job. Across the room, the number twelve flickered in bright neon red. Twelve messages? Good grief. She was never that popular, but then again, it had been three days since she’d last checked.

The first message was from Friday night, left before she’d made it home in the rain.

“Just calling to check that you made it home all right,” Kevin’s voice said pleasantly.

The second message was also from Kevin.

“Hi. It’s me. Wanted to be sure that you’re okay. Call me.”

Third message. Kevin.

“Are you there? Didi? I’m getting worried.”

Three messages in the space of twenty minutes? The drive home must have taken longer than she’d thought. She’d been slip-sliding her way down Deer Hollow Road while Kevin was “getting worried.”

Fourth message. Surprise. Kevin.

“Didi? Pick up the freaking phone! If you’re trying to make me mad, I don’t think it’s very funny. Didi?” The irritation in his voice was clear.

Her decision to turn off the ringer and ignore the messages had been a good call. She might have answered him on Friday night if she’d heard his voice. Now that would have been a disaster.

Fifth message.

“Didi, it’s Saturday afternoon. I let you sleep, assuming you were too upset to talk last night. Call me immediately.”

That one must have come in while she’d been having lunch with Pat.

Sixth message.

“Didi, it’s seven-oh-four and I’m sick of your vindictiveness. I guess you’re ticked off at me, but I didn’t do anything that would cause this much commotion. I’m coming over, and you’d better be there!”

She wished she’d picked up that call so she would’ve been warned. Obviously, he’d left that message right before he’d appeared, pounding on her door, Saturday night. She hadn’t been ready to face him—not that she’d been prepared to face him last night, either.

Thank heaven, the seventh message was from the vet’s office, inquiring on Maisie’s health. Dr. Harrison had asked her to call him if there was anything unusual in her behavior, if she developed a fever, etc. He’d left his home phone number in case there were any problems. Now, that was a good vet. Didi’s own physician didn’t do that. Happily, she hadn’t needed to call, and Maisie seemed to be recovering nicely.

The eighth message was from her mother, asking her to come by soon for dinner. She made an effort to visit her mom every week or two. With her sister, Bridget, living on the other side of the country and her dad gone, she was all her mom had. Her father had died when she was eighteen, and more than a decade later, she still missed him daily. It would be good to stop by and catch up.

Pausing the messages, Didi made a quick call to her mom.

“I have a new meatloaf recipe I’ve been meaning to try, and you’re the guinea pig,” Ellen O’Brien said.

Ah, well. Her mother tried hard to please, but her cooking was sort of hit or miss. She made a mental note to toss some TUMS in her purse in case she needed them. “I’d love to come over, Mom. When?”

“Now, let’s see. Remember, I’m leaving on the senior trip to Williamsburg tomorrow, and then I’m volunteering at the animal shelter in the evenings early next week. Now, let me see…” The rustle of calendar pages flipping carried over the line. “I think I could fit you in sometime late next week. Is Thursday good for you?”

Didi couldn’t help but grin and shake her head. It was kind of her busy mom to shoehorn her in. “Perfect. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“Only yourself, honey. And I’ll make peas, since they’re your favorite. How would you like some mashed potatoes?”

“Great, Mom. See you next Thursday.” What could go wrong with meatloaf, peas, and mashed spuds?

The eighth message was a hang up. Probably Kevin.

The ninth message was also a hang up, as were the tenth and the eleventh. She checked the caller ID. Kevin. The calls had come in yesterday while she’d been out having lunch with Suzy. Chills raced down her back. She didn’t get it. Why would he pursue her when he’d made it clear he didn’t want her?

The twelfth message was a stunner. Good thing she was sitting down.

“Hi, Didi? This is Jake Montgomery. We met last night at the youth rally. You were outside on the bench, and I was the guy who brought you a cup of hot chocolate. I enjoyed talking with you.”

There was an awkward pause, and then the deep voice continued.

“I know I’m calling out of the blue, but, uh, if you’re not busy on Friday night, would you like to go out with me? Let me leave you my number…”