Your Chariot Awaits Read Free Page B

thighs of steel.
    But in case I was jumping to some unwarranted conclusion here, I backtracked and put it as a blunt question. “So what you’re saying is, you and me, we’re over?”
    â€œI’m saying we’ve had great times together, Andi. Lots of fun. But I’m going to be down in San Diego, and you’re going to be here. And I think we’ve both always recognized that our relationship has . . . certain limitations, and we both need to widen our horizons and pursue new interests.”
    â€œBut we can still be friends.”
    He missed the sarcasm in that old line, because his face lit up in a relieved beam. “Exactly. Friends! I knew you’d under-stand. You’re such a good sport, Andi. The best.”
    I didn’t feel like a good sport. I didn’t even want to be a good sport. What I wanted was to dump the glass of lemonade over Jerry’s head.
    â€œWhat about your sailboat?” It was a dumb, irrelevant question, but it was all I could think of to fill space while I tried to keep my hand off that glass.
    â€œI’ll sell it before I leave. I’ll get a bigger and better one down there. Hey, maybe you’d like to buy it? I can give you a deal on it.”
    â€œI . . . I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”
    â€œIf you hear of anyone who might be interested, let me know. We’ve had fun times in it, haven’t we? You’ve turned out to be very good sailor.” He leaned forward to give me an affectionate kiss on the nose. A good-sport kiss.
    I backed out of his arms. Joella was right. The man had the sensitivity of a toadstool. Breaking up with me and telling me how wonderful this new woman was, trying to sell me his old sailboat. And then kissing me on the nose.
    He kept on talking, telling me enthusiastically about how the company was going to pay his moving expenses, but I wasn’t really listening. I was standing there feeling like the time I’d been dumped overboard from his sailboat. In over my head and floundering in deep water.
    Downsized.
    Dumped.
    Depressed.
    And the week was only half over. What next?
    As if in ominous answer to my unspoken question, the doorbell rang. Given the way things were going, it could be anyone. IRS agent, terrorist, serial killer . . .

3
    T he young guy who stood on my doorstep was unfamiliar, but he looked harmless enough. Midtwenties, brick-red hair, freckles, baggy khaki pants with pockets down to the knees, sloppy gray T-shirt, scruffy running shoes of some indeterminate brand. But who knows what a serial killer looks like?
    However, he was obviously at the wrong house. Probably even the wrong neighborhood. Because parked at the end of my walkway was the longest, sleekest, blackest vehicle I’d ever seen, the likes of which had surely never touched the potholed asphalt of Secret View Lane before. Across the street, Tom Bolton had left his deck and come out to his gate for a better look.
    â€œYou’re driving that ?” I said.
    The guy gave the vehicle a disinterested glance. “Yeah. I drove it up from Texas.”
    â€œBut it’s a limousine. ” A stretch limousine. And he didn’t look as if he could afford to drive a ’79 Pinto, let alone tool around in a limo.
    â€œI’m looking for Andalusia McConnell. Is that you?”
    Andalusia . “Well, yes,” I said, “but—”
    Jerry was behind me, hands on my waist. “Is that your real name? Andalusia? Sounds like some awful disease.” He deepened his voice to somber newscaster tones. “We’ve just gotten the latest update, folks, and the Andalusian flu is going to be really bad this year.”
    The young guy gave Jerry an odd glance. “It has something to do with Spain, doesn’t it?” he asked me.
    I felt an unexpected rush of warmth toward him for knowing that much. “Yes, it does. And, yes, I am Andalusia McConnell.” With a good reason for the