The Heart Exposition

Phoebe was startled when James took her camera and snapped her picture. A frown that had formed when her fiance called deepened at his words. She took the camera from him numbly. When he made her an offer that should have thrilled her to her toes, she could only feel this strange sick sensation in her belly.

The camera went around her neck from sheer force of habit. THe card he passed to her was held between her fingertips of both hands like a letter from a loved one. It took her a moment as the noise of the bar grew louder with the evening crowd. "I...will." She had disappointed him somehow. She knew it, but like a lost fawn couldn't see the forest for the trees, she had no idea why.

"I had a lovely time, James." She edged away from the table and turned to leave. Looking back for a moment, she smiled. It was the same smile she had shared with him all day. "Maybe...I will. Thank you. For everything."

When she reached her apartment, she went straight into her dark room and worked for hours. Dillon found her there at well after one in the morning.

"God, baby, what the hell you been doing in here?" He demanded in his low voice when she opened the door to him. His eyes scanned her images with the usual disinterest until he noted one of James.

She smiled when instead of looking away he stepped closer, thinking he was showing interest.

"Who's the old fart?" He moved closer to the selfie she had taken with James. Both their faces wide with smiles and enjoyment of the day, heads close together. "What the hell." His dark chocolate brown eyes turned on her in the strangely lit room. They weren't angry, just demeaning.

"I met him in the park." She didn't want to tell him anymore. The memories had become little treasures of memory. It had been a long time since she had enjoyed herself so well as she had with James.

Dillon snorted. "Meeting dirty old white guys in the park. Bet that made his day." He moved down the line to the last shot of her in the bar. "I like this one." His words startled her. She certainly didn't. When she had finished processing the images, she had seen the same dull lifelessness James had.

Before she could recognize that the source of that look was not simply in the end of a lovely day, the real reason for the dull and lifeless photo took her in his arms and did that thing to her earlobes that drove all thought from her head. It would be a few days before she looked at any of the images again.

When she did, she pointedly ignored that last shot, but gathered the best of the images and on her afternoon off went in search of the address on the business card James had given her.
 
It was Wednesday. He had to remind himself of that lately, whatever the day. With a schedule to keep or clients to call or important business trips to take, Jim was finding it more and more difficult to keep track of the time. Being retired… sucked. There were any number of volunteer groups he could join, true. None of them really held much interest for him. He considered going part time, maybe do a little consulting work or helping folks with taxes or something… That was a short path back to the land of heart attacks, though, and he knew it. Jim had money and time. What he did not have was anything to spend either on or anyone to spend it with. The last hurt the most.

He had thought she would call. He really did. Jim was sure there had been some sort of connection between him and Phoebe, the whole 'vibe' thing you got when you first met a person and knew, just knew, that this person was somehow going to majorly affect your life. Who cared if she had a finance or boyfriend or whatever?! Just… being near her had made him happy. It was like they had been friends for the longest time, and neither of them simply remember it at the moment. That was the only description he could put to the feeling.

But she didn't. Saturday she had left the pub. Saturday had turned into Sunday, and the day had dragged on in an eternal dull limbo. Jim had even forced himself to go to church, just for something to do. He had been raised Catholic, but he couldn't recall the last time he had actually been to mass; the church he visited had been a Methodist one, the nearest he could find. A lot easier to understand and follow along, while alien at same time. At the coffee clutch that followed, the former business man could only sense how out of place he was even there. The rest of the afternoon was what a friend of his had once referred to as 'The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul.' How many baths and cups of tea could one stand in a day? Jim recalled the phrase had been lovingly pirated from some sci-fi author, but he couldn't remember who.

Monday, he tried his hand at painting. With nothing but the sheer determination to do something, he went to a local art store to buy a bunch of canvases, paint, and brushes. The whole day he tried to paint… anything. A farmhouse? A tree? A lake? How had that afro-haired, sleep-inducing guy on PBS made it look so easy?! Jim's creations looked far more like what some elementary school student might come up with. Worse! in the end, he tried the Jackson Pollock route and just started throwing paint and striking the canvas with the brushes to see what happened. Venting frustration felt good, and the resulting painting actually did look more marginally attractive than his attempts to depicting real life. For a finale, he had looked at his paint smeared hand, shrugged, and pressed it hard against the last remaining canvas, the largest of them all. The paint on his hand had mostly dried, but some faint colors still clung to the white cloth when he removed his fingers; a small mark on grand sheet of white the size of a movie poster.

Phoebe still hadn't called.

Tuesday, he pointedly ignored the paintings he had made and left them in the basement where he had worked. The stab at artistic endeavors hadn't motivated him in the least. He also didn't feel like cleaning up. Instead, he spent the day thinking on how he might write a book. Wasn't that what all the successful money men did eventually? Write a book on how they did and how others could, too, if only they applied themselves? Jim got as far as making a few notes after hours of staring at his computer screen before giving it up as a lost cause. Because it wasn't true. People who applied themselves got further than those who didn't, yes, but there would always be a number of outside variables that people wouldn't be able to account for. Being successful required a great deal of commitment and discipline, yes. There was a luck factor, however, that was pointedly ignored in all of those self-help books, even if it was only a small factor. That was probably because the books wouldn't sell as well otherwise.

He kept checking his phone the whole time, though. Without any luck. She still hadn't called.

Wednesday, Jim was starting to feel pent up. He'd only been retired for a few months, and now in the past couple of days he was starting to lose it. Was this how the rest of his life was going to be? He couldn't stand the thought of it. He couldn't stand thinking any more. So he threw himself into working out. The basement had a corner that he had dedicated to his own personal gym, and while a twenty minute workout every morning was his norm, Jim went at it with a passion that day. He was overdoing it, and he knew he was probably overdoing it. But at least he was doing something. Weights, treadmill, stretching, heavy bag… a lot of work on the heavy bag, enough that his knuckles began to hurt even beneath the thick padding of the gloves. Lunch was an apple and a banana and lots of water on either side of the meal to keep himself hydrated. His t-shirt was stained with sweat and the sweat pants too hot as he kept working the bags, now with elbows and knees as well as fists.

It took him a moment to realize the doorbell was ringing.

Jim frowned as he looked up at the sound. He wasn't expecting anyone, nor were any packages out to be delivered to him. Figuring it to be some sort of solicitor for religion, charity, or the like, he almost didn't bother. His Victorian home on the North side of Buffalo was in a well-to-do neighborhood, and Jim had figured the apparent affluence of the area might attract such people despite the obvious "No Soliciting' sign on the door. But at least it was something to do, someone to talk to.

Besides, Phoebe still hadn't called.

With a towel around his neck and a cold bottle of water in his hand, he went up the back steps to come out through the kitchen, through the dining room, and then into the living room where the front door opened to the wide grass yard and the street beyond. Jim's eye caught the clock on the mantel. It was only half past one. He resisted sighing at the knowledge that he had expended hours down stairs working out, and there were still twice as many hours left before he might go to bed.

When he opened the door, he nearly stumbled back.

Phoebe hadn't called. She had come.

His eyes wide in shock and his jaw moving slightly for several moments as Jim's mind worked out what he should say, another part of him was incredibly self-conscious about he must appear. Sweaty and smelly, dressed in an old t-shirt that was a bit too tight around the shoulders (and a bit around the belly as well) with sweatpants that had seen better days, his hair slicked wet with perspiration…

"Uh…" Okay, he had gotten as far as making a sound. This was good. Now all he had to do was to make the sounds into words.

"Phoebe!" he finally got out. Jim gestured ineffectually towards the inside of the house. "Hey! Glad you… yeah! Come in! Please! Can I give you a hand? Sorry about how I'm dressed, I was down in the basement. Working out. You know. And painting. The other day anyway. It's good to see you! Really! Can I… can I get you anything? Water, juice, coffee… water?"

Very good! his brain complimented him sarcastically. Now let's try talking and not babbling!

Jim bit his bottom lip for a moment to try and stem the flood of inane ramblings that poured from his mouth at the sheer sight of her. She was… beautiful. Standing there in the light of the early afternoon, dark skin glorious as though to make the aged and stained woodgrain of the house's trimmings envious. If only his face didn't feel so hot. Was his face hot? Was it from working out?

"I was… really hoping… to see you again," he trailed off lamely. Jim had no idea that for all of his age, his face was that of an infatuated school boy.
 
Phoebe had never been struck with that sudden hungry feeling of lust. Never once. She'd felt interest, appreciation, even heartsick infatuation, but when Jim opened the door looking so very male, lust came crashing down over her like a bucket of icy water that left her gasping a little.

She'd walked from the nearest bus stop into the quiet old neighborhood, glad of her wool jacket and knit scarf. The soft sweater beneath her jacket also helped shield her from the crisp fall breeze that stirred up bright colored leaves along the sidewalk. Dark skinny jeans encased her slender legs that vanished into knee high "ranger" boots. She looked young and fresh and the stately homes with their well manicured yards and hidden driveways seduced her camera from the bag she carried over one shoulder.

She'd taken her time, a quality that Dillon failed to appreciate.So she saved such rambling strolls to those times when she was alone. And she was alone a great deal. But, she was young and these weren't the thoughts in her head. Her head was full of late blooming flowers and trees as old as the country itself. Brightly painted gables and ornate front doors with almost magical looking knockers. Until Jim opened the door.

As he stumbled over his words, she was being flung from wicked thought to wicked thought like a debutante at her first balls. Her eyes kept moving to the breadth of his shoulders and the curve of his biceps. The damp filigrees of silver at his temples and the flush of color along his sharp cheekbones. All of this she was imagining, not in a sweaty t-shirt, but naked and pressed against her own naked skin.

The way he smelled wasn't unpleasant. Her blue collar father said that unique musk was the smell of hard work and pride. She loved it and wanted to bury her nose in the curve where his neck and shoulder met. To feel arms that looked so strong and dependable wrapped around her. When he confessed his hope, she blinked in surprise to find she had walked inside. That hadn't been the plan.

She'd talked herself into believing she'd exaggerated the joy of that day in the park. His easy companionship had turned into the patient indulgence of an elder. The hours she spent in his company had been only procrastination on her part and possibly his. He wouldn't really be interested in the photos, but it was only right that she return them to him. The shots he had taken were after all his intellectual property.

Loneliness clung to lust's heels however and together they rooted her to the spot, refusing to budge. "I'm sorry. I should have called. I should..." A wind blown strand of hair was tucked behind her ear to keep her hands from other things like brushing the lock of hair from his forehead. She was at a loss to know how to deal with desires so strong and vivid. A blush deepened the color in her cheeks but a smile managed to break through the confusion.

"I just thought...you would like to see the pictures." She hesitated. "From the park." And while he looked the stammering schoolboy, she looked the uncertain child.
 
Jim ushered her inside, trying not to focus on how the jeans clung to her thighs and all too aware of his own presence state. "No. No, don't worry about. Truth is, if you had called I probably wouldn't have heard the phone, I had left it upstairs. So… yeah, it's good you came by when you did!."

When Phoebe smiled, it had a devastating impact on his libido and his nerves. Jim felt weak in the knees. There was a sense of deja vu again as he thought he heard his own voice ask 'Dear God, who is that goddess?" The voice in his head was gone in a flash, the context of it making no sense to him all but leaving him to agree that a dark skinned goddess Venus had indeed just stepped into his living room.

For a wealthy man living in a fashionable neighborhood and within a historic building, the living room and dining room beyond were modestly furnished. There was nothing fashionable about any of the furniture or the decor. It looked far more comfortable than stylish. Jim had been tired of the sleek and spartan lines of modern design, and had opted for a more homey approach to filling his new dwelling; a great deal of it had been bought from discount stores and consignment shops. He had wanted to live in a place that felt and looked like a home, not a magazine ad.

"I'd love to see the pictures, absolutely! Did you bring any others, or just the ones from the park?" The question was not part of his ongoing babble. Jim was genuinely curious to what Phoebe was capable of with a camera. The book deal he had talked about was no jest, and while he hadn't thought much on it the past few days he was no less committed to the idea, unfinished as it was. He lead her deeper into his house so that she might spread her pictures out across the table. Looking at them would be great. Looking at the with her would be even better.

Jim leaned in close as she neared the table. He could smell her, a pleasing womanly scent that tickled his nose and made a stir in his ardor; the older man was suddenly rather glad he was wearing sweat pants with some give them. "You know, I was serious about that whole picture book thing," he confided, "the one where find pictures of older buildings and sites and do new pictures of them for comparison? We could talk more about that as well while you're here. Oh, and did you make any decision about submitting for that showing at the Historical Society? I'm still more than willing to sponsor you… if you'd let me."

Jim moved two of the dining room chairs out of the way so that he and Phoebe could spread the pictures out. The table was not tremendously long, and the two of them would have to stand fairly close together in order to view them at the same time. He could only hope that he didn't smell too badly.
 
Phoebe's eyes were lured away from her lechorous stares to genuine curiousity about the home of her friend. Yes, friend. Just a friend. A very nice man who she kept inconveniencing but who was sweet to be indulging her. So she told herself as she slid her bag from her shoulder and kept her eyes away from him and on the decor.

The place felt comfortable, homey. Nothing like the austere apartment she shared with Dillon. Her fiance loved shine and leather and loud pops of color. But this place felt like you could sit and read a good book with a mug of tea, or fill it full of good friends to watch a hockey game. She hazarded a glance back at him as he peppered her with questions and showed her to his dining room table.

"Mostly just the ones from the park. I thought you'd want to see your own work. And the one of mine are in there too." She didn't want him to think that all she wanted from him was his offer of assistance. As they stood side by side, she felt this strange feeling of having stood with him like this looking down at a table covered not in photos but homemade crafts at a stall in some kind of fair. It was there for just a moment and gone the next and left her feeling chilled.

She drew closer to his warmth as she opened her bag and took out the cardboard lined binder. One by one she laid the images out, mixing his shots with those of her own. "It would be amazing, but seeing images on a screen are different than seeing the finished product. What do you think?" How she longed for praise and affirmation that the passion she felt for her art was justified and translated into the heart and mind of the viewer.

The shot of him in profile she had taken before they had officially introduced themselves lay beside one he had caught of her in a similar pose. But the spirit of each image was vastly different. His looked so sad and alone, while hers caught her with lips parted as if having just caught a breath of her own life and found it tasted sweet. But the shot he had taken to point out the death of that life was not among them. It didn't belong among the images of flora and fauna, candids and selfies that sooner covered his table, a collage of moments.

She caught his scent again and unconsciously took a deep breath. Dillon wore cologne. Always. One of her friends at the photo shop said he smelled like he'd been preparing himself for his own death. Dixie didn't like Dillon. If it wasn't his overuse of Hugo Boss, it was his designer suits or the way he fussed over his BMW. Looking up at Jim, Phoebe wondered for a moment what Dixie would think of him with his silver hair and comfy home and the simple scent of hard work and pride on his skin.
 
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Jim tried hard not to think about how close Phoebe was to him, practically hip to hip as they leaned over the table and examined the photos. He had arranged it that way on purpose, almost as though to purposefully torture himself either her proximity and what couldn't be; she had promised herself to another, after all. Looking at the pictures from that first day in the park helped… and made things worse at the same time. To see that lovely, shining face so full of life as it looked up at him from the table, and then to glance to the side and see the reality of her standing right there was maddeningly frustrating in its own way.

Another photo caught his attention. It was the one with her upon the rock, looking like a serene and content goddess as she perched atop of it and gave that enigmatic smile right before cracking that horrible joke. Looking at it made his heart skip a bit. It was on the outside edge of the spread, and Jim moved around behind Phoebe to switch sides for a better look. In passing, his hands brushed her hips to move her gently aside, and Jim tried not to cringe as he realized that he might have let his hands linger a little too longer on her slender sides. It was only for a moment, but the position seemed so familiar.

Then he was on the other side, the move complete, and he was reaching for that photo to take a better look. It made him smile wistfully. "I don't know much about my skill with a camera," he quipped, "but I can't complain about the subject! You think you could get me a copy of this one, but blown up a bit? So I could frame it?"

Realizing how that must sound, he laughed at himself. "A bit weird, huh? Some guy you hardly know wanting a picture of you to keep for himself?" The laughter trailed off, and Jim held the photo up above his head to peer at it as though she were still seated above him. His voice became more serious. "I like this one the best, though. It's beautiful."

"We have tonight at least." The phrase rang through his head, drudged up out of the distant past and repeated in words that were tremulous with passion and fear and regret and… yes… love. Jim felt a tug at his heart that had nothing to do with his medication. To have at least one night, to share one moment…

He turned to look at Phoebe, his eyes catching hers and holding them for several long moments. The tension between them was almost electrical. It was insane. Completely and utterly mad, but there was no denying how much he had been obsessing over this woman all the weekend, and now she were there in his house. He had always been a risk taker. Now he felt as though he were about to take the biggest risk of his life.

"You're beautiful."

The words slipped out far easier than he would have imagined, almost naturally, as if he had said them to her before and frequently. That did nothing to prevent the blush from rising up his still sweaty neck to fill his cheeks. Jim looked away suddenly. "I'm… sorry, I don't know why… I mean, you are! Absolutely! It's just…"

Reverently, he laid the photo in his hand down up the table while focusing on it. Looking directly at Phoebe was almost too intense a sensation to bear. "I keep getting the feeling that we've done this before," he whispered, "or something like it. It's deja vu over and over again, but it only happens around you."

Realizing how he might sound he rubbed at his face with both hands, groaning a little. "That sounds incredibly freaky and stalker-ish, doesn't it? I'm sorry, I'm probably making you uncomfortable. Mayne we should talk about the book deal instead."
 
Phoebe had liked that shot as much as he did, though for different reasons. It hardly looked like herself in the image. When he asked if he could have it framed, she understood the desire as an artist. There was something powerful in the lithe figure with the clear sky at her back and the stone beneath her feet. She felt the same power in his fingertips as they slid along her waist. Her equilibrium slipped and she leaned for a split second into that touch. Physical needs that had stirred when he answered the door surged up and muddled her thoughts.

It took a moment for her to realize he wanted the picture because it was of her. Her breath caught on the pleasure of his compliment and her eyes couldn't tear themselves from looking up at him as he stumbled through too many words. *You talk too much, my love. Just kiss me. I want to remember more than words.*

She felt it too. That almost memory. That she would know his body as well as she seemed to know his voice and it made her want to cry. She shook her head. "No." Her throat was tight with emotions too deep for her to wrap her young happy heart around. "No, I feel it sometimes too. I always have. My Nana says I have an old soul." She managed a reassuring smile as she shut doors on the little desperate, inconceivable voice in her head. "Maybe you do too."

The room felt too warm and she unwound the scarf from her slender throat and draped it over the back of a chair. "You don't have to promise me anything. But...if you want to see some of my other work. Maybe help me choose something for that show?" He made her believe in her work.

"But...I could come back. I didn't mean to interrupt your day. Dillon keeps telling me I have the social timing of a lemming."

The scarf was back in her hands. Conscience and loneliness battled inside her, making her fingers shake as she worried the scarf between them. She took a hesitant step closer to him. It was a dangerous move, but she couldn't quite reason why.
 
She said that she didn't want him to promise her anything. It was completely foolish. Having her so close to him (again), Jim wanted to promise her everything and everything that had been denied them. It was a strange thought and he couldn't place where it came from. That didn't prevent any of it from feeling correct. Phoebe was stepping closer now. The length of her scarf slid between her fingers, bunched and knotted and straightened again and again as she took that hesitant step closer to him. James found himself turning to face her. To his surprise, and perhaps hers as well, the distance between them had closed to less than a foot. James could smell her all the better, a heady scent that made his knees even weaker than before.

Her words made him anxious though. "No, please…" Phoebe had mention something about coming back, which would mean she would leave, and James did not want that! He wanted… he wanted… more. How and in what way he was unsure outside of simple lust, but he wanted to give himself to her in someway as he hoped that she might share some part of herself in turn. "Don't… don't go." He licked his lips nervously. "Your timing is… timing is fine."

That wasn't quite what he wanted to say. What James wanted to say was 'Fuck Dillon, and the horse he rode in on! What sort of ass says things like that about the woman he supposedly loves?!' This wasn't the time for anything of the sort, instinct told him. Now was the time for careful words and gentle honesty.

"I don't know anything about old souls," James confessed to Phoebe, "but I swear to God… I keep thinking that I know you…"

His hand went up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingertips grazing that one special spot that he unconsciously knew might affect her. It wasn't his conscious intent. His body remembered things far better than his mind did, though, and it was moving another step towards her until he was looking down into her face. Only the thin bit of scarf was between them then. James wondered what it would take to get her to drop it. Or better still, to throw it over his shoulders and have her pull him into her as she had-

-in the rose garden. Delaware park at night was quiet and serene despite the noise and splendor of the Pan-Am Expo on the other side of the manmade lake. The evening sky was lit up by the massive display. The powerful surges light from the Electric Tower pulsed across the sky as a beacon to summon everyone to behold the Exposition's wonders. Jim paid it no mind at all, for there was wonder there in his arms. That wonder had captured him in her scarf and their lips were only scant millimeters away from one another's, and Jim could taste the desirous scent of her breath as they came ever closer.

Reality snapped back, and James timidly raised his hand again to caress her cheek.

"Phoebe?" Her name was soft and almost pleading as James. "What's happening? And should… should we stop it?"
 
She didn't want to go. Or rather, something inside her didn't. And when his fingertips briefly caressed over the shell of her ear, she was almost undone. Her knees went weak and her breathe caught in her throat and that something battling to escape made demands. A moment flashed before her eyes.

"Father, I would defy all the world to have a life with him." The sad face staring back at her through memory's window was not her own sweet Daddy's face, but a weary and frustrated man she did not know but who seemed so very familiar as to be dear as a father.

"Life...my sweet girl, we have not so long ago won our freedom from the whip, but we are colored. Neither side has forgotten. Not yet. What you had together would not be a life."

Phoebe felt her fingers tighten in the scarf in anger that was not her own. It was of a nature stronger and more wild than her own.

"I have already had him, Papa. We belong to each other. It can't be undone." A gasp caught in Phoebe's throat at the confidence and the confident belligerence of the words spoken in a voice like her own.

That father's face broke into such sadness that his shock at his one sweet girl's lost innocence. "No, my little girlie-pie. But it can be denied."

She swayed, and for a moment, their bodies touched. She wasn't that woman, so defiant of tradition and culture. So confident in her sexuality and the power of love. Maybe Phoebe was weak. Too weak to take what now was no scandal. Except for Dillon. She was to be his wife. She loved him. She did. He was good for her. Kept her feet on the ground. Made her feel secure. James was the wild card here with his roughly handsome features and his gentle eyes. He was temptation and strange longings that frightened her with their intensity.

"Maybe now isn't the best time to...to figure anything out." Inside, the wild one wept.

"I should go. Dil....my fiance...he's taking me to his parent's tonight. Some fancy gala for a children's foundation." How getting dressed up and drinking overpriced champagne and tiny appetizers aided children who just wants a roof over their heads and someone to love them, she couldn't understand, but it was what was done. The plea in Jim's voice tore at her seductively and emotionally and the need it stirred physically hurt. "James, I want...I need..."

She made no sense, even to herself, and in frustration at her own ineptitude and wayward desires that made her feel and sound the fool of some stupid day time drama, she turned away. "I can't think straight. I'm sorry. You are so kind. And everything you've offered...it means so much to me. Too much maybe."
 
He was losing her. James felt his soul quail inside at the very prospect, and as much as he wished to scream in denial against it, he could feel he was losing her. Again. When she spoke of Dillion, his heart cringed. When Phoebe turned away so that he could no longer look into those oh-so-expression eyes, his spirit trembled in fear that he might never look into them again. Without thinking about it, his hand went out to lay upon her arm above the elbow.

It was not a tight grip at all. Phoebe could easily shrug it off. Nor was it a demanding grip, tugging and pulling at her to turn her around and face him once again while he demanded the recognition that he was positive they both felt. It was simply a connection, an offering.

"Is it… too much to be happy?"

He heard his own voice say the words to her, and as they left his lips he could hear himself say it as if in stereo. This wasn't the first time he had said those words, and it wasn't the first time he had said them to her. It was madness! James wasn't sure if he was losing his mind and becoming some sort of creepy old stalker man, but at the moment it didn't matter. It was real. He and Phoebe. If only-

His eyes widened as revelation struck him, and James physically staggered and gulped. His chest was pounding hard as his heart struggled with the dawning knowledge. "It was your father," he whispered in amazement and horror. "Your father… he… "

Staggering back another step, his arm dropped away to clutch at his chest as panic began to set in. Was this, too, real? Or was it a nightmare being brought on by his medication, another side effect the doctors hadn't told him about. But if it was a hallucination, why could he see it so strongly? The darkness of the alley way behind the train station, the last train of the night gone and the Expo closed for a few hours until morning, the gun coming up, the eyes behind it…

"He shot me," James got out with gasping breath, "He… he shot me… when I came to meet you… he… God…"

The pain in his chest began to radiate out to his arms, and the room began to swim with vertigo. "Phoebe?" Where was she? She was supposed to meet him. A moment ago she had been right there in front of him, her back turned toward him as her father came up from behind the pile of crates with a pepperbox in hand, and Jim fell into the dining room chair that he had pushed aside earlier.

Blindly, he began to look about through ever narrowing tunnel vision. James sank and slid down off of the chair to the floor, the one hand still to his heart as it began to spasm erratically. "Pills," he muttered, "Bottle… microwave… I need… need… Phoebe?"
 
She stilled at his touch. His softly imploring words ringing in her mind like a long forgotten bell. She had believed in happiness once. Somewhere along the way it had faded into a need for certainty. For safety. As she turned to face him, to explain that happiness may be desired but it was too easily denied, her eyes widened.

He didn't look well. Confusion and wakening fear stirred in her chest, making her own heart begin to race. "My father? How do you know my father?" She reached outward as he fell back into his chair, catching his arm. "James, what's wrong?" Deep down she knew. Hadn't he mentioned a heart condition that day in the park? But then, even if he hadn't, she'd seen enough TV to know what was coming. Already a corner of her mind was screaming like the wail of an ambulance.

As he slid from the chair to the floor, she panicked a little even though she knew it wouldn't do any good. Microwave? What microwave? She straightened and search the nearby kitchen space for the microwave. She caught sight of an ugly brownish prescription bottle on a practical and basic microwave and gave his hand a hasty squeeze.

"Ok, James. I see it. I see it."

She dropped the scarf beside him and ran into the open kitchen, and cursed softly as she realized there were several bottles.

"Oh god, oh god. Which one?!"

She nearly dropped the first but caught sight of the name of a blood pressure medicine her father took on the label. She let it fall to the counter and grabbed the next. The fates were kind and she comprehended the directions.

She hurried back to his side and fell to her knees, fighting the bottle open with numb fingers. "Here, James. Quickly." She guided his head up into her lap to drop the little pill under his tongue. "Please, just...breathe. I'm here. I'm here." She fished out her cell phone and dialed that number no one wanted to dial.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"My...my friend is having a heart attack, I think. He collapsed. Please. I can't remember what to do."

The patient voice at the other end guided her with easy to answer questions and instruction. She did her best to answer each one and follow direction. "I don't know what medications. I saw a bottle for high blood pressure. He mentioned having a heart condition. We only met a few days ago. I'm sorry."

"It's ok. You are doing great. Help is on the way. I'll stay on the line with you."

After what seemed like forever, she heard the siren as it pulled up outside. "THey're here. James, it's going to be ok, dearest, the medics are here." She didn't know she had called him dearest. It was such an old fashioned term.

She was hurrying to answer the front door, phone in hand. She stepped back as two men swept into the front entrance and found their way to the dining room where James lay. The medics took over talking in words she barely understood as she told the dispatcher they'd arrived and they hung up.

The younger of the two lifted his head, and asked. "What were you doing when he collapsed?"

"Just talking... I was about to leave. My pictures." She waved at the pictures that lay on the table and floor. They didn't matter. Not now.

"Was he stressed? Upset?"

She shook her head, blushed deeply. "I don't know. I mean...well, he...didn't want me to leave." She watched a look pass between the pair.

"Did he...take anything earlier?" She could tell they meant something they were trying to be discreet about, but her worry and innocence left her at a lose.

"I don't understand. We aren't that close. He seems like a responsible man. I'm sure he takes his meds regularly."

"No, ma'am. I mean, did he take a sexual aid before you...?"

Temper flared in her gut and her eyes. "We aren't having sex! He is a friend. And...and he is helping me with my photography! Why can't you just help him?" The memory of that punch of lust when he had opened the door darkened the flush in her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We didn't mean to offend, but if he is taking such things we need to be made aware."

"He didn't even know I was coming." It was denial, yet it was clear to the pair who'd seen people at their most vulnerable that there was something stronger going on between the two even if nothing had happened.

James was already on the rolling gurney and hooked to oxygen. "We will take him in and they will be able to contact his physician." They wheeled him out and she reluctantly followed. All the while he seemed to fade in and out of awareness and when he called her name it run her heart.

"It's going to be ok. I'll find your keys and lock up." She squeezed his fingertips.

"What hospital will you take him to?" She got the name from the older of the two who gave her a reassuring smile, but voiced no promises. The rear doors were slammed shut, separating her from him. As she watched them drive off, she stood on the sidewalk feeling lost and dazed until a woman's voice and the whine of a tiny dog cut through the fog of worry and soul crushing loneliness.

"Who are you and where are they taking poor Jimmy?" The tall blonde who was fighting age with botoxed determination tapped her foot to show her annoyance at having her concern for "poor Jimmy" ignored by the stranger who was Phoebe. Her tiny dog glared at her from its place in the crook of her arm. Phoebe blinked.

"I'm sorry. His heart...they are taking him to...I'm sorry, who are you?" She realized too late she really had no business sharing James' medical situation with a woman she didn't even know.

"I asked you first, young lady. I am Olivia Annabelle Pendergrass and I live up the street. Jimmy and I are dear friends." The dog yipped.

Phoebe didn't like Olivia Annabelle Pendergrass. Or her dog.

"Then you probably know more than me already."

"We're dating. I have a right to know where he is being taken. How would I know that?" The way she followed on Phoebe's heels as she turned back to the house and said the word "dating" like it was code for something else set Phoebe's teeth on edge.

"I am sure he will be very glad to see you when he gets home. You should drop in. Maybe bring a casserole." The door was ajar and she quickly mounted the steps and slipped inside. Olivia Annabelle Pendergrass was half way across the landing when Phoebe turned back to face her with the door against her shoulder like a shield.

"A casserole!" Olivia Annabelle Pendergrass' tone carried all the rage her fixed expression could not. "Now you listen here! I have never seen you before and I am not letting you do who knows what with his things while he is who knows where fighting for his life." Long manicured fingers shoved against the door. Phoebe pushed back.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm just gonna toss the dildos in the dishwasher before I leave." Before the woman could answer, Phoebe managed to slam the front door and throw the deadbolt in place. What on earth had come over her!? She winced at the angry slamming of the neighbor's fist on the heavy door. What if James really was dating her? What if ... no!

She shook her head. No. No, that shallow creature who stood outside calling her names and threatening to call the police couldn't possibly be a friend of James. She forced herself to move into the dining room and gather up her things. A wallet and set of keys lay on a small table by the door and she quickly tucked them into her shoulder bag. The shouting and hysterics at the front door continued, so she slipped out the back and was glad to see a gate that opened onto the alley that divided the block. As she reached the sidewalk, she saw the bright pink designer pantsuit with its perfectly coiffed blonde head vanish down the front walk into a house down the street.

More relieved than she cared to admit, she quickened her pace and hurried to catch a bus to County General. Her phone chimed with Dillon's ringtone and she jumped guiltily. She was supposed to be getting ready for the big party at her future inlaws. Staring down at the choice to accept or decline the call, her finger hovered for a moment.

The little red button beeped in response and the phone fell silent. She wasn't going to be leave him alone when he was hurt. Maybe dying. Not again.
 
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There were people… talking… somewhere beyond the agony that was blossoming in his chest there was another world. James lost touch with it. It was like hearing snatches of conversations between whispering ghosts. Or was he the ghost? Everything seemed to be this heavy dark grey, tinged with rings of red about it. It was hard to breath. Even to swallow his own saliva as the panic flooded his body was a great strain that only added to the pain. James could only take consolation in that his first heart attack had been worse.

"Phoebe?" The words came out hoarse and thin, trembling. She was there, wasn't she? She had to be! Where else would she be. He muttered her name over and over, his hands trying to reach out for her but only rising the smallest amount with palsy. James thought he heard her, and a small if too brief smile came and went as he felt a reassuring squeeze upon his fingers. Then he sunk further into that core of blooming red anguish that made his chest feel tighter and tighter by the moment, escaping it all into blessed blackness.

Questions. Someone was asking him questions in brisk and business like tones. There was a professional firmness to those voices, a firmness that granted by hardened hearts that tried to care too much and too often. James recognized those tones and the questions. Nurses. They didn't have that casual offhandedness that doctors tended to have; nurses were the ones who bore the brunt of the horror, who had to deal with the moment by moment experience of a patient's pain while the doctors, caring as they might be, maintained a careful distance. After his first cardiac arrest, James had become puzzled as to how anyone could have a nurse fetish; it was like having a sexual fantasy about sewer workers with PTSD.

He tried to answer their questions, or at least he thought he did. He was distinctly sure he felt his lips moving and his throat vibration, but beyond that it was a mystery.

"Your doctor is Phoebe?" A strong female voice was asking near his ear.

"Nn-o," he grated out, "Perna. Ben Perna." But the confusion raised another question, one of his own. "Phoebe… whe-where's.. Phoebe… Hher father… he… he shot me…"

This led an alarmed and very confused conversation, and he could feel hands searching over his body. It was cold. Cold and dry, and James wondered what had happened to his t-shirt. Trying to raise his head was too exhausting, and he fell back limply onto something so thickly padded that it was almost hard. Opening his eyes revealed a swirl of lights and faces, and with vision came noise. Not just noise but an outright din of chatter and beeping and shouting and clicks; it dawned on James then that he hadn't opened his eyes, but rather someone had pried his lids open one by one to flash bright light into his pupils.

"Sir, you haven't been shot. You've had a myocardial infarction-"

"No," he muttered blearily, "I've had a cardiac arrest… caused by… by arrhythmia… paro- … paroxysmal atri-…"

"Paroxysmal atrial tachycardia?" a male voice asked as though confirming what Robert was trying to say. Robert nodded weakly.

"You've a history?" Again, all he could do was nod.

"You just relax, sir," that infuriatingly calm voice came again. "We're going to take good care of you. Right, let's start him on…"

That voice faded and Robert retreated from the real world once more.
Several hours after James was admitted, an elderly but tall doctor with glasses and a balding pate came out to the waiting area after a nurse pointed in Phoebe's direction. He was not a handsome man, but he carried himself with a certain swagger despite looking to be nearly seventy. Kind eyes that looked like they should be full of impish mischief looked out of a face too serious to be real, and as he approached he stuck his hand out to shake Phoebe's.

"Excuse me? I'm Dr. Tallhoffer. I'm sorry we haven't been able to give you any updates, but it was touch and go for a bit, and we didn't want to give any false hopes." He smiled gently then, an avuncular expression that immediately let anyone who saw it know that he was their friend. "You'll be glad to know he's stable. We have moved him upstairs for now as we'll want to keep him for a few days for observation and follow up. His primary is supposed to meet with me tomorrow morning for a consult along with our best cardiac specialists. From my understanding, Mr. Dillinger has been rather resistant to the idea of getting a pacemaker? You might wish to prevail upon him to change his mind if you can. It would really be in his best interests."

The on-call doctor checked his wrist watch. "It's well past visiting hours, but I think I can arrange for you to stay in the room for a little bit if you'd like before the charge nurses start having conniptions." Looking up at Phoebe again, he gave that easing and charming smile. "If you're ready, I'll walk you up to your husband now."
 
Phoebe had to turn her phone off when she entered the hospital and frankly it was a relief. Any guilt she felt about worrying Dillon and his family, she showed down deep. A man was dying and the thought of it made her feel like a part of herself was too. Cool, stall coffee sloshed lightly in her cup as a doctor came out from behind closed doors.

His serious face frightened her for a moment. James was gone. Tears welled and she swayed there on her feet. Not again. Not now when they had almost...

Dr. Tallhoffer's words had her wishing she hadn't stepped away from the faded vinyl chair she'd been perched on for hours. When his smile and words brought the restoration of hope, she choked back a sob. Tears welled. The revelation that he had refused a pacemaker stunned her and she nodded mutely.

It wasn't until he called her James wife that any sound managed to escape. "No, I'm not..."

*If you say you aren't his wife, they won't let you see him!*

She stammered. "I mean, yes, ofcourse I'm ready. I just need..." She turned and spotted her forgotten bag. Snatching it up, she gave him a weak smile. "Thank you, doctor. I was so worried. He's...he's such a good man."

*And I love him.*

The elevator doors opened and she shook her head to clear it a little. It was only fatigue and worry. Nerves. That's all. Silently, she let the good doctor cajole the nurses into allowing her into the room. As she caught sight of him, her bag slid to the floor. She stepped past it and moved quickly to his side. He didn't look any better than he had when they had loaded him into the ambulance.

The nurse's annoyance at retrieving the tripping hazard of her bag from the floor was forgotten when she saw the look on Phoebe's young face. "He'll get his color back before you know it." She was quick to reassure.

Phoebe glanced up, unaware of the heartbreak etched into lines in her smooth face. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost him." The nurse only offered a vague smile of reassurance and escaped the room. From outside, two others joined her and with heads close together watched and whispered.

But Phoebe saw them or cared. She simply sat down and took his hand in her own. "James." Her fingers tightened in his as her head fell forward and she wept.
 
Someone was crying. James felt more than heard it, the sound of it almost drowned out by the soft beeping of the machines near at hand. He tried to swallow so that he could speak, only his mouth felt too dry for words. He swallowed again after summoning up what moisture he could, his tongue and vocal chords barely wetted. Eyes still closed, James raised a hand to feel around feebly.

"Phoebe?" he muttered.

It felt like something was tethering his arm, wires and tubes keeping it from being able to move too far about. It irked him, and so he swallowed again and frowned. The sensation of something in his other hand made his fingers twitch, and it was then he realized that his other hand was already being held.

"Phoebe?" he groaned again with a little more strength.

James forced his eyes open as far as he dared, the light in the room all too bright for him despite the dim and consoling ambience of night that the nursing staff tried to create. It took several blinks to get everything in focus. His chest still hurt like hell, almost as though he had been struck across it with an iron bar, only from within. Lolling his head to one side, he saw the young woman there with his hand in hers.

His fingers squeezed hers gently. The pain of seeing her like this was almost as bad as the heart attack itself, and he would have done everything he could have to alleviate it for her. Licking his lips with a too dry tongue that felt as though it was wrapped in cotton, he tried for a few words to calm her. They came out in a hoarse whisper that he hated.

"Shhhh, no, no," he murmured, "Don't… don't cry… I'll be alright. Really. It's fine, it's fine…"

Not that he knew that for sure. But he was alive and aware, and that counted for something. More importantly, Phoebe was there. Before his body had been surging with an incredible lust for her, a soul-kneading desire to share the most delicate and obvious of intimacies with her such as he had never dared. Now James suffered a different need. He needed Phoebe there… and she was. Wherever else she had to be, whatever else she had to do, she had chosen to be with him.

He gave a wan smile and tried to squeeze her fingers again. "Tell me you didn't bring the camera," he croaked out teasingly.
 
Laughter tangled up in her sob as she heard his voice. How could she not cry? If she wasn't so very relieved to see those eyes looking back at her she might have lost her temper with the man. Scaring her like that. And refusing a pacemaker! But the temper couldn't rise above the relief and so she rose, leaning over and pressed her soft lips to his forehead and temple; willing with each benediction that he would be restored.

His eyelids and cheeks, the bridge of his nose. The rough exhausted face so wonderfully still warm with life. Her eyes opened and focused on his face. "The doctor said you should have a pacemaker." Her mouth hovered near his for a moment before she drew back and sat back down to take his hand in both of her own and rest the tangle of finger on her cheek and her elbows on the safety rail.

Her lips found his fingers mingled with her own and kissed them. For the moment, he was her whole world. Thoughts of her egotistical fiance and his stuffy parents, or of her own parents or her job that she was likely to miss getting to if she stayed never entered her head. The man whose hand she held had nearly died. No decent human being left someone alone after that. She rubbed her lips lightly back and forth over his fingers as she watched his face.

In the room beyond the nurses slipped away and returned to their duty station as a woman swept in looking artfully disheveled. "Is he here? I was told he was here. My poor sweet Jimmy!" Olivia Annabelle Pendergrass had put two and two together and gotten four. There were after all only two ambulance companies and the red one that had taken him away served County General exclusively. But the dramatic lines she'd seen in far too many daytime dramas suited her so much better.
 
For a moment, James was lost in her kisses. James had to close his eyes as he reveled in each blessing she bestowed, and a long, contended sigh escaped out though his nose as he relaxed. Each kiss was lovingly bestowed as though Phoebe was willing life and love into him each time, as though mere words could not convey her feelings but the kisses could. James couldn't agree more. She was here. Whatever else happened, this woman… this woman whose last name he didn't even know… she was here with him. That was all that really mattered.

When she took up his hand against her cheek and murmured what the physician had said, he opened his eyes and weakly chuckled. "No," he countered woozily, "What I should have is a working heart. One that doesn't get out of sorts just because the most beautiful woman in the world might leave my house when I want her to stay. But we don't always get what we should have. Besides, I hate the idea of a machine being attached to me for the rest of my life." James glanced in disgust as the machine displaying all of his vitals and grimaced. "Bad enough I have to be rigged up to this thing for right now."

Turning his head back to Phoebe, James gave her a far more genuine smile. "Thank you," he murmured with heartfelt honestly and warmth. "I had this feeling… just this… feeling… that if I opened my eyes and you weren't there-"

A sudden brash voice that screeched across his ears like nails on a blackboard widened his eyes in fear and terror. The device monitoring his heart rate began to beep alarmingly as James blanched all the more until he was as white as a sheet.

"Nooo," he groaned in disbelief. "No, no, no, no… What the hell is the crazy fruitcake lady doing here? And please don't tell me she's got that damned dog with her?"

James feebly nodded towards the nurse call switch. "Get the… the nurse… call security… Please? Need my phone so I can call my lawyer… Told him she wouldn't obey the fucking restraining order…"
 
Phoebe was a child of the age, even if her Nana said she had an old soul and James protest made her roll her eyes before swiping at them. "Do you see this face? This face is what you get without being attached to a machine." Her delicate features with the high cheekbones and full lips looked swollen and bruised from worry and weeping. The weeping still frightened her, but the frustration she felt that they both could have been spared this trauma didn't. It made sense.

"You are getting that pacemaker, do you hear me? You wouldn't have to fret if you were reasonable." Before she could continue, a familiar voice leaked through the walls like acid. Guilt swept over her features. What right did she have to be haranguing the man. That dreadful woman might very well be his fiance!Then she say the look on his face and heard the monitors pulse into a faster higher key.

"James, you need to calm down. Please. If you don't want her here, I'll tell the nurses." She wanted the machines to quit trilling out in alarm. She pressed the call button hurriedly and then remembered that she didn't really have the right to be in the room either. As Olivia Annabelle Pendergrass demanded to see her fiance in ever more abrasive tones, Phoebe turned guilty eyes to James' face. "They think I'm your wife. I should have told them. I'm sorry, but it didn't seem to matter at the time but now..."

Nurses were wrangling the irate Olivia even as they tried to get past to answer the call button *and* the warnings from the monitors themselves. The older of the two was not pleased at the drama her latest patient had brought with him onto her floor, and the younger was wide eyed and almost hopping with the delight of the same. Both were competent and Phoebe had to step back hurriedly to give them access to their patient.

Meanwhile Olivia Annabelle Pendergrass had caught sight of her through the open door and with a shriek clawed viciously at the orderly keeping her out of the room while the nurses tried to bring the situation under control. "You shameless, gold digging little ghetto rat! What are you doing in there with my poor Jimmy? He needs me. He....needs....me!"
 
"You are my wife," James grated in a whisper to Phoebe, "Or you were… supposed to… Anyone asks… you tell them… ringless ceremony… or something… Get me… my phone… house… Gotta call Mercroft… my laywer…"

The nurses were then pushing the young woman out of the way to get at James as the machined beeped wildly. More nurses began to arrive shortly. A crash cart was wheeled in. A babble of curt conversations erupted as needles were produced and sedatives were applied though the drip lines. Dr. Tallhoffer suddenly appeared to take charge, only to find that his patient was not going down without a fight.

James' untethered arm shot up to grab one of the male nurses by the collar and pulling him close. "Get that… lunatic out of here. Call… call the cops…"

"Enough of that," the elderly doctor barked curtly. "Mr. Dillinger, please let Eric go. If you break him, then I have to explain to his girlfriend what happened, and she can be a bit impatient when it comes to explanations." He turned about to the orderlies. "Get her out of here! If she gives you any problems, have the PSAs deal with her."

The two burly men began to drag the struggling Miss Pendergrass out of the ICU wing, grumbling all the while. Dr. Tallhoffer was staring after them for a moment as though trying to remember something, but after a moment he shook his head and returned to his patient. "Mr. Dillinger? We're going to give you a little something to relax now. You might fall asleep, but given the situation that's perfectly normal. We're going to keep you under observation for a bit, and then when we're sure you're a bit more stable, we'll have a nice long talk, okay?"

He glanced over at Phoebe and smiled gently before looking down into the face of the slowly calming James. The drugs administered through his IV lines were starting to take effect, and the beeping slowly calmed down to something less harsh and panicky. "Your wife will have to leave now, but she can come back in the morning. Better let her know now if there's anything you want her to bring back."

With that, Tallhoffer moved off to a corner of the room with the two floor nurses while the rest monitored James carefully.

James feebly reached out for Phoebe's fingers. As shaky as his limbs were, his hand latched onto her as though she were a lifeline. "You are coming back, right?" The words were whispered, for Phoebe's ears alone.
 
James' words sent a tremor of terror and sweet longing through her and she shook her head even as she thought for the briefest of seconds how sweet it would be to belong to such a man. But then the room's chaos overwhelmed the chaos in her own head and she stood a moment stunned at the accusations and insults being flung at her head.

Then rage burst inside her like fireworks. The look on her face had even the doctor catching his breathe. "Get out." Something in those two little words brought a hush over the room. Everything stood still for a moment. Frozen. "He is not yours. And he never will be."The moment passed like a crack in a pane of glass, and Phoebe focused on James. Olivia Annabelle Pendergrass swore "it wasn't over', but no one in the room paid her any more attention except to escort her away.

Phoebe's fingers linked with his with the ease only lovers knew. And in that gesture, any doubt the doctors or nurses might have had faded away. The rather obnoxious engagement ring she wore didn't seem in either her taste or the gentleman's, but who were they to judge.

She nodded at the doctor as if to say that the needed discussion could and would have only one outcome. But leaning down close to James' head, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I promise I will come back. I promise." She ignored the sickness in her gut until she was safely on the bus and heading for home.

She turned her phone on and listened to voice mails that moved from annoyed to downright outraged at not being able to reach her. Even his parent's sounded more annoyed than concerned. As the bus took her home, she called her parents.

"Hi Mom. No...Yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry Dillon worried you. I had to help a friend. They had a family emergency and I was at the hospital with them. You know....no cellphones. Just a friend, Mama. Yeah, I'm gonna house sit for them. No, Dillon will be fine. I know he's upset. No. I will. I'm sorry, Mama. I know. Just for a few days. God, Mama, no I haven't run off with another man! I'm just house-sitting for a few days until they can come home from the hospital. Just a friend, Mama. Mama. Mama, I gotta go. I'll call you tonight."

Phoebe blamed the lurch of guilt on the bus. She pressed her fingers to her temples and when her phone ran again, she turned it off once more. She'd call Dillon from home. Tell him the same thing she had told her mother. Suddenly, she realized she needed to get away from everyone and everything. House-sitting for James seemed as good an excuse as any and she was certain he wouldn't object.

As she opened the door to the apartment she shared with Dillon, she tried to brace herself for the possible showdown, but everything stood dark and silent. Dropping her bag at the door, she moved further inside, only to jump when the phone rang out in the echoing space. "Hello." The voice on the other end was low and the very calm of it told her how upset her boyfriend was. "Oh, you are finally home. Bout time. Where the hell you been, babygirl?"

She sensed the flood of demands and questions and cut in before he could ask more. "Dillon, I',m gonna be gone for a few days. No, not out of town. Just going to house sit for a sick friend. Tell them the truth. I was at the hospital with a friend who suffered a heartattack. They'll understand." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Dillon, *you* aren't even home and I am too tired to argue about this. No, I said I'm tired. Goodbye. I said goodbye."

Speaking to herself as she went to her room to pack, she gave voice to a truth she was only beginning to understand. "Hypocritcal jerk." Sometime later she was entering James' house through the rear entrance just in case James' stalker was watching. It took a couple of minutes to find the phone but when she did, she found the attorney's number and leaning against the kitchen counter made the call.

She only ogt his answering service but left a careful message and hung up. Then she called the hospital to check on...her husband.
 
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There wasn't too much information that the hospital's courtesy rep was able to provide to her over the phone other than to tell her that James was stable and comfortable, and that they would be moving him out of the ICU to a quieter wing later that evening. No room number was available yet, but Phoebe could inquire at the front desk when she came in. The woman was kind enough to suggest that she might bring in a book or music player and headphones for her husband.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly enough, and Phoebe had full run of the house. James had decorated the rest of it much as he had the living room and dining room, with second hand furniture that didn't quite match but that did give the house a homey, lived-in feeling. On the second floor was the master bedroom, quite obviously his. The other two bedrooms couldn't really be called such. One had been turned into a sort of study-cum-library with full bookshelves covering almost every inch of available wall space, an incredibly comfortable looking armchair sitting next to an end table. A small pipe rack displayed a variety of briar and meerschaum pipes next to a humidor, and the room smelt only faintly of rum tobacco and old paper. The second room was nothing but unpacked boxes, stacked neatly.

James' entire house gave the feeling of someone caught between being just out of college and being an Edwardian gentleman of leisure. It suited him.

The stillness was broken just after dinner by a sharp rapping at the front door. "Hello?" a male voice called loudly. "Hello, Miss… Er… Hello? My name is Mr. Mercroft. I'm Mister Dillnger's lawyer? You had called? I thought it best we meet in person. I've already spoken with my client and he told me you would be here. Hello?"

He stood upon the front porch, a short man in a slightly rumpled suit of grey silk with a red necktie and a very expensive Mercedes Benz sitting in the driveway. In his fifties, his thin brown hair was starting to recede towards the crest of his head. The size of his ears didn't help. Nor did the size of his nose. He was clearly a man who could have benefited from the miracles of plastic surgery but had declined for whatever reason. Yet as off as his looks were, his voice was strong and his stand confident.

"Hello?"
 
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