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Authors: Some Kind Of Wonderful
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sat down on the couch so
she could make Emily more comfortable.
"Are you crying, Caitlyn?" Matt asked.
She shrugged off his question as she blinked the telltale moisture out
of her eyes. The man saw too much. "Emily pulled my hair. It's nothing."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Look at me."
She didn't want to; she really didn't want to. But the silence between
them lengthened and she found herself lifting her head and gazing into
his eyes. They were perceptive eyes, shrewd, seeing right into
her, and
she didn't like it one little bit. "You must be a good reporter," she
murmured.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I find myself wanting to confess, and you don't even have a
lightbulb over my head."
"Confess what?"
"Nothing," she said hastily. "I said I had the urge to confess, not
that I had something to confess."
"But you do."
"No. I don't. You're the one with the secrets." She hoped to turn his
attention away from her.
"And you're trying to redirect. I applaud your technique."
"Did you find out anything about your sister?" she asked, ignoring his
perceptive comment. She had to keep her distance, and sharing secrets
with him wouldn't accomplish that.
"Nothing yet. I wish I had more to go on, a description, a picture of
what she might look like now."
"Maybe like you?"
"More like my mother than me probably. I took after my father. Sarah's
hair was darker than mine,
black as ink. She used to wear it so long
she could sit on it. And her eyes were black, too. They always seemed
big for her face. Or maybe it just looked that way because her skin was
so white. She bruised easily. One touch and she'd have a purple mark
tor a week.' He paused, obviously caught up in his thoughts. "Sarah was
a scrawny kid, her ribs always poking through her shirt. I knew she
needed more
to eat, but I couldn't always get it."
"And your mother wasn't around?"
"Not much. She was a mess most of the time. Hell, why am I telling you
all this0"
"Maybe it's easier to tell a stranger."
"1 was hoping you'd stay a stranger," he said bluntly. "I'm not much
for nosy neighbors."
"Have I acted like a nosy neighbor?"
"Well, not until about five minutes ago, when you started giving me the
third degree."
"Because you pulled me into your apartment," she reminded him.
"You're right." He sat down in the chair across from her, resting his
elbows on his knees as he watched Emily suck on her bottle. "A neighbor
used to call the cops on us. Mrs. Malkovich. She was a mean old woman,
used to chain-smoke in the hallway until you couldn't see past your
nose. I'd have to lie, make up some story about where my mother was,
and hope she'd come back before they did. It worked, too, until the
fire, until we had nowhere to go. Then Mrs. Malkovich got even by
telling everyone that our mother was never coming back. The next thing
I knew we were put into separate foster homes. They wouldn't even let
us stay together."
"How old were you?"
"Sixteen. And Sarah was nine."
"Did your mother ever come back?"
"No." Matt stood up and paced around the apartment. 'I have to find
Sarah. I've looked a hundred times over the years, but the records were
sealed, locked away for our own protection, or so they said. As if I
needed to be protected from the only person who ever gave a shit about
me."
"I'm sorry, Matt. That's so horribly unfair."
He shrugged. "Whoever told you life was fair?"
"What happened to you after they split you up?"
"I went to a foster home for a few months, then another and another. I
was mad at the world. No one wanted a part of me. On my eighteenth
birthday I was told to get out and move on."
"What did you do then?"
"You're certainly full of questions."
"Just passing the time, unless you'd like me to leave you with Emily?"
she asked pointedly.
"No, you just sit there and relax," he told her hastily. "I hung around
San Francisco for a while, picked
up odd jobs, eventually moved around
the country, got into the newspaper business."
She waited for him to
she could make Emily more comfortable.
"Are you crying, Caitlyn?" Matt asked.
She shrugged off his question as she blinked the telltale moisture out
of her eyes. The man saw too much. "Emily pulled my hair. It's nothing."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Look at me."
She didn't want to; she really didn't want to. But the silence between
them lengthened and she found herself lifting her head and gazing into
his eyes. They were perceptive eyes, shrewd, seeing right into
her, and
she didn't like it one little bit. "You must be a good reporter," she
murmured.
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I find myself wanting to confess, and you don't even have a
lightbulb over my head."
"Confess what?"
"Nothing," she said hastily. "I said I had the urge to confess, not
that I had something to confess."
"But you do."
"No. I don't. You're the one with the secrets." She hoped to turn his
attention away from her.
"And you're trying to redirect. I applaud your technique."
"Did you find out anything about your sister?" she asked, ignoring his
perceptive comment. She had to keep her distance, and sharing secrets
with him wouldn't accomplish that.
"Nothing yet. I wish I had more to go on, a description, a picture of
what she might look like now."
"Maybe like you?"
"More like my mother than me probably. I took after my father. Sarah's
hair was darker than mine,
black as ink. She used to wear it so long
she could sit on it. And her eyes were black, too. They always seemed
big for her face. Or maybe it just looked that way because her skin was
so white. She bruised easily. One touch and she'd have a purple mark
tor a week.' He paused, obviously caught up in his thoughts. "Sarah was
a scrawny kid, her ribs always poking through her shirt. I knew she
needed more
to eat, but I couldn't always get it."
"And your mother wasn't around?"
"Not much. She was a mess most of the time. Hell, why am I telling you
all this0"
"Maybe it's easier to tell a stranger."
"1 was hoping you'd stay a stranger," he said bluntly. "I'm not much
for nosy neighbors."
"Have I acted like a nosy neighbor?"
"Well, not until about five minutes ago, when you started giving me the
third degree."
"Because you pulled me into your apartment," she reminded him.
"You're right." He sat down in the chair across from her, resting his
elbows on his knees as he watched Emily suck on her bottle. "A neighbor
used to call the cops on us. Mrs. Malkovich. She was a mean old woman,
used to chain-smoke in the hallway until you couldn't see past your
nose. I'd have to lie, make up some story about where my mother was,
and hope she'd come back before they did. It worked, too, until the
fire, until we had nowhere to go. Then Mrs. Malkovich got even by
telling everyone that our mother was never coming back. The next thing
I knew we were put into separate foster homes. They wouldn't even let
us stay together."
"How old were you?"
"Sixteen. And Sarah was nine."
"Did your mother ever come back?"
"No." Matt stood up and paced around the apartment. 'I have to find
Sarah. I've looked a hundred times over the years, but the records were
sealed, locked away for our own protection, or so they said. As if I
needed to be protected from the only person who ever gave a shit about
me."
"I'm sorry, Matt. That's so horribly unfair."
He shrugged. "Whoever told you life was fair?"
"What happened to you after they split you up?"
"I went to a foster home for a few months, then another and another. I
was mad at the world. No one wanted a part of me. On my eighteenth
birthday I was told to get out and move on."
"What did you do then?"
"You're certainly full of questions."
"Just passing the time, unless you'd like me to leave you with Emily?"
she asked pointedly.
"No, you just sit there and relax," he told her hastily. "I hung around
San Francisco for a while, picked
up odd jobs, eventually moved around
the country, got into the newspaper business."
She waited for him to
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