overhead told him that the drizzle was a mere temporary respite. The real rain was still waiting impatiently in the wings.
Ben juggled his packages on his knee as he opened the side door to the stairwell leading to his top-floor flat. The Brinkmans and the students from St. John Fisher College weren't home yet--the bottom two stories of the house were dark. The phone was ringing in his flat as he fumbled the key into the lock. Two rings. Three. Trying to hurry, he dropped the box of chocolates, but still couldn't tumble the lock. Four rings. Five. He carefully placed the Henson's gift box on top of the soggy bag from Downtown Fineries and finally unlocked the door. He caught the phone on the seventh ring, but picked up to a dead line.
"Damn," he grunted as he slammed the phone down. He took a deep breath, thought about the night ahead, and finally smiled. He had too much going for him to worry about a missed phone call.
Ben slipped out of his coat and shook obstinate raindrops onto a burgundy-and-blue Persian rug. After he clicked on a green-shaded lamp, the flat's spacious living room glowed cozily. He picked up his packages from the hallway and placed them gently on the huge mahogany table in the dining room. He slipped the chocolate box from the soaked paper bag and tenderly dried off its cellophaned cover before completely unwrapping the box. Carefully lifting the ring from its velvet cushion, he placed it between a Dutch chocolate cream and an almond praline. Ben smiled mischievously as he patted the box for good luck.
It was nearly seven. He’d have to take a quick shower, change, then haul ass over to Kinsley's. Ben stripped down to his waist and began toward the bathroom when he looked at the phone. The missed call had probably been Kinsley. He might as well call her up now, even if just to tell her he'd be a few minutes late.
Two rings. Three.
Ben closed his eyes tightly. This wasn’t like Kinsley. Was something wrong? Had she gotten a series of hang-up calls which frightened her more than usual? Was she sitting right next to her phone now, determined to let it ring incessantly? He put the phone back in the cradle and scolded himself. This was a big night, and he was just getting pre-engagement jitters.
Ben was almost to the bathroom a second time when he stopped and turned toward the balcony door overlooking his back yard. He heard Krusty, the Petersons’ dog next door. Ben peered through the laced curtains, then opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony. He looked over the fence into the Petersons’ yard. While he couldn’t actually see Krusty, the dog’s bark was clear enough. And that fact merely added to this night of firsts. Just as Kinsley never failed to pick up the phone at six-thirty sharp, Krusty never barked at anything. Not if he was left out in the snow, not if Tommy Peterson forgot to feed him. Never. Except for tonight. Ben shook his head as he pulled the balcony door to. This time he made it into the bathroom for his shower.
*****
Ben dried his hair briskly with an oversized towel before looking at the clock on his bedroom wall. 7:11. He would make it to Kinsley’s on time after all. He struggled into new jeans and had to hopscotch his way toward the living room. As he fished under a camel-backed couch for his casual pair of shoes, Krusty continued to bark. Since the Petersons obviously weren't home yet, Ben decided to take a peek in their back yard before leaving. The poor mutt might be tangled up in his chain or something.
Ben slipped a white cable-knit sweater over wet hair, then primped in front of the mirror approvingly. 7:13. Just enough time to give Kinsley a quick call before going to pick her up for dinner. She’d certainly answer this time. Right?
He sat on an uncomfortable chair in the front corridor and mutely clicked in her phone number. One ring. Two. He listened numbly to the high-pitched beep through the receiver, which was now firmly plastered against his ear. He listened to the ring, to the slash of the ever-increasing rain, and to Krusty, who was barking even more shrilly now. With mild annoyance, Ben looked toward the balcony door as the phone continued to ring impotently. And that’s when he saw it.
On the floor, in front of the balcony door, lay the box of chocolates. Knowing he had left it on the dining room table, Ben's mouth parted slightly in surprise. But it was the object on top of the box which answered all of his questions.
He now knew why Krusty was barking.
He understood why Kinsley hadn't answered the phone this evening.
He realized who had been phoning Kinsley, but hanging up without speaking.
He suspected whose silhouette it was he now saw standing in the dimly-lit corner of the dining room.
And whose rain-soaked footprints had been recently tracked across his Persian rug.
On top of the box of chocolates was a short-stemmed red rose.
Sarah had come back to Jefferson.
#####
About the Author
George lives with his wife Rebecca in Southern California; they have three daughters. He's a legal article writer by day, and fiction writer (and occasional stage actor) by night. George, after graduating from law school at University of California--Hastings, worked as an attorney for a number of years, a background that comes into play in the novel Murder on Retreat. A work in progress is also based in the legal world, an environment which is always challenging, often unpredictable, and sometimes dangerous.
To drop George an e-mail, please contact him at
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