The Baby's Bodyguard

“Nice view,” she commented.

The clanking noises he’d been making halted abruptly. A moment later, an oil-smeared face emerged.

“Well, hi.” Royce grinned flirtatiously, not at all daunted by his greasy condition. “Your car’s ready to go. Tuned up, oil changed, brakes checked.”

“Great.” Although it galled Casey to have someone else work on her car, she couldn’t perform the maintenance due to her expanded waistline. “What do I owe you?”

“Let’s call it even.” He shook his head, which set his light-brown ponytail waggling.

“Let’s not.” Casey might be short on funds, but she didn’t want to owe Royce any favors. She hadn’t fallen in love with him in high school and it certainly wasn’t going to happen now. “I prefer to pay my debts up front.”

Since her condition had become obvious, Royce had mentioned several times how much he loved kids. Too bad she couldn’t picture waking up beside him every morning. Or, to be honest, any morning.

“Whatever.” The mechanic ambled into his office, where an oil-smudged computer blinked below a bikini pinup calendar. Posters of football heroes covered the other walls. “A hundred and twenty-three eighty-eight, if you insist. How’s your camera?”

She’d told him earlier that she planned to stop by Lanihan’s Department Store to find out whether the gush of water had damaged it. “It’s fine. Apparently the case protected it.”

“You mean you got the guy? You know who it is?”

“Uh, no,” Casey admitted. “There’s this big blur where his face ought to be.”

“Too bad. At least you have your camera back for the party tonight, though.” Accepting her credit card, Royce swiped it through a machine.

“You bet.”

Two of her tenants, Enid Purdue and Rita Rogers, were throwing her a shower. Half a dozen friends and neighbors planned to attend the event, which, due to the small size of the cabins, would take place at Casey’s house.

She hadn’t realized she’d mentioned it to Royce earlier when she dropped off the car, but she must have. Or else word had spread. Nothing stayed private for long in Richfield Crossing.

“So this stalker or whatever he is, you think you scared him off ?” Royce asked as he waited for the computer to finish processing her bill.

“I doubt it. Seeing a pregnant lady take a tumble isn’t likely to intimidate him.”

“I heard the police came out.” He certainly had been paying attention.

“Larry Malloy wouldn’t scare a cockroach. And he isn’t likely to find one, either, even if it’s six feet tall.” Although the town’s young, part-time police officer had arrived half an hour after she’d called Jack, he’d taken only a cursory glance around the property. She doubted she’d ever see an arrest unless her attacker marched into the police station and confessed to the chief.

Royce handed her the charge slip. She tried not to wince as she signed it, knowing what a hole the amount would make in her bank account.

The tenants’ rents had sounded like sufficient income when she decided to move here, but she hadn’t realized how big a bite maintenance and taxes took out of that. Once the baby got old enough to leave with a sitter, she’d have to look for a part-time waitress job.

Royce tore off her copy and handed it over. “Casey, everybody admires your guts, but you don’t have to go through this alone.”

She flashed him a smile. “I’m not. I have friends.”

He might have said more had a lean man in his late forties not strolled into view through the open door. “Got my truck done yet?” asked Al Rawlins, who owned the town’s movie theater and video store. “Oh, hello, Casey.” He clamped his mouth shut, obviously not thrilled to see her.

“Hi.” She wished she didn’t feel so awkward around Al and his wife Mary, who had once been like a second set of parents. “How’s it going?”

“All right.” Al looked meaningfully from Royce to the truck sitting with its hood open. “I’m in a hurry.”

“Almost done.” He headed off to finish the repairs.

Casey stood there wondering what to say, although she doubted she could patch this relationship no matter how hard she tried. She and Al’s daughter Sandra had been her best friend for years. When they moved to L.A. together, she knew the Rawlinses had seen her as an anchor for their high-spirited child, but she hadn’t been able to stop the aspiring actress from getting mixed up with drugs. Finally she’d had to move out for her own safety.

“Well, I’ll see you around,” she said at last and went out to the car. Al didn’t answer.

In L.A., she’d hated the sense of letting Sandra down. A week after leaving, she’d gone back to their old apartment hoping to persuade her friend to give up drugs. She’d discovered that a couple of new people had moved in. Not only were they obviously high, but Sandra had joined them in making sarcastic remarks about do-gooders.

Although Casey had attempted a few more times to maintain the friendship, Sandra had bridled at any suggestion of what she termed pushiness. Since the conflict between them didn’t help her friend, Casey had finally stopped calling.

A short time later, she’d met Jack at the restaurant where she worked as assistant manager. He’d stopped in for lunch with his partner, flirted with her and returned that evening to ask Casey on a date.

She’d been struck by how different he was from Sandra’s fast-living friends and the other, rather superficial men she’d met in California. At first, she’d been drawn to his quiet strength. Later, her admiration had grown as she’d discovered both his intelligence and how hard he’d worked to overcome his lack of family support.

They’d married a few months later and spent two years together. Two years of finding out that she couldn’t fill the void left inside Jack by his miserable childhood. Two years of loving a guy who spent most of his time working and who didn’t know how to meet her halfway emotionally.

Casey had hoped a baby would bring them together, but he’d adamantly refused to have one. The stronger her longing grew, the more her husband had withdrawn.

Matters had come to a head a year earlier when she visited Tennessee to help her widowed mother recover from a heart attack. Being back in Richfield Crossing had made Casey realize how lonely and isolated she’d become.

On her return, she’d told Jack she was willing to stay in L.A. only if he would change his mind about children. When he refused, she’d filed for divorce.

Casey still missed him, especially at times such as last night when she’d yearned for his reassuring steadiness. But in the long run, she was better off standing on her own two feet. Besides, she had baby Diane to take care of now and to love.

Still, she couldn’t pretend she preferred it this way. Or maybe the overcast sky was weighing on her spirits, she conceded as she drove along Old Richfield Road. Living in California, she’d grown accustomed to almost constant sunshine.

Casey shook her head. No use blaming the weather. The memory of last night’s close encounter had heightened her sense of vulnerability and this feeling was compounded by her approaching delivery date. But she refused to yield to negative thoughts.

So what if she encountered a few obstacles? She’d never believed life was meant to be easy. And she had much to be grateful for.

Her mood lightened when she caught sight of the freshly painted green-and-white sign advertising the Pine Woods Court. Turning into the driveway past the compartmentalized community mailbox, she rounded some trees and basked in the lights shining from her house into the gray afternoon.

Casey parked in the carport. As soon as she opened the front door, the scents of vanilla and cinnamon engulfed her. She could hear pans rattling in the kitchen.

Enid and Rita must have spent hours decorating. They’d draped the walls with pink honeycomb bells and had floated bunches of baby-shaped balloons up to the ceiling. A stork centerpiece dominated the paper-covered table, with candies strewn about. On the coffee table, bowls of nuts circled a pair of candles in the form of baby bottles.

“This is fabulous.” Casey hurried into the kitchen. “Whatever you’re baking, it smells great.”

Two flushed faces regarded her, one at the oven, where the owner was removing a tray of sweet rolls, and the other from the counter. At seventy-one, Enid Purdue still carried herself with the authority of a high-school math teacher. She wore her champagne-blond hair fluffed, with a flowered dress softening her figure. As Casey entered, she finished propping two cards on which her bold handwriting labeled one coffeepot “leaded” and the other “unleaded.”

Shorter and rounder, Rita Rogers, who was about half Enid’s age, manipulated the hot pan onto the stovetop. Rita might be mentally handicapped but she worked hard in the cafeteria of the Benson Glass Company and never missed a chance to help a friend. She also knew her way around an oven.

A wave of gratitude flooded through Casey. “You guys are amazing.”

“Thanks.” Rita glowed with pleasure.

“How’s the camera?” Enid asked. “I brought mine in case we need it, but it isn’t digital.”