Easy Loving

Catherine glared at the envelope Easy had left behind. She scrubbed at her lips where his touch lingered, taunting her with old memories and hurts. She refused to remember how much she’d loved him—how much he’d loved her.

Oscar and Bent eyed her curiously.

“I don’t know what his game is,” she told the dogs, “but I’m not playing. He’s crazy. Completely out of his mind.”

Jeffrey murdered his wife. The accusation hung in the air like an odor.

He’d collected proof her fiancé was a murderer—ridiculous! Easy must consider her a complete dummy if he thought for a moment he could march in here and disrupt her life. She snatched up the envelope. A string looped around a paper button held the flap shut.

She stomped into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet under the sink and dropped the envelope into the garbage can. With her foot, she closed the cabinet and swiped her hands in good riddance.

She hummed old show tunes, the notes fierce in her attempt to not think about Easy, while she showered. Once clean, she used a towel to scrub at her wet hair while she sat on the edge of the bed. Her attention wandered to the framed photograph of Elizabeth’s substitute. The anonymous child’s dark eyes seemed to mock her: He never lied to you.

“I never caught him in a lie,” she whispered in rebuttal. “There’s a big difference.”

Scrubbing her hair, she wandered restlessly around the bedroom and out to the lower-level family room. The room was stark, far too large for the lone recliner and television set that furnished it. Old-fashioned panelling on the walls reminded her of the rumpus room in the basement of Easy’s parents’ home.

This house wasn’t pretty and it needed extensive remodeling, but it was home. She liked it fifty times better than the pristine, overdressed, oversize showplace where her parents lived. Catherine wondered if this house had appealed so much to her because it reminded her of the Martels’ place over on Uintah Street.

Troubled, she dried her hair and left it loose. After slathering moisturizing lotion on her hands and arms, she slid on her engagement ring.

She frowned at the flashy ring. Jeffrey murdered his wife.

Easy didn’t even know Jeffrey, who had never been married much less murdered anyone. Easy couldn’t know Jeffrey. The two men were as different as fire and water, and had nothing in common. Except he did know Jeffrey—somehow.

She went upstairs to the kitchen and jerked open the cabinet under the sink. Easy claimed to be a private eye. She found it difficult to reconcile the memory of a sports-crazy, impulsive, restless boy with a methodical, dogged investigator. It made as little sense as his insistence that her fiancé had murdered a woman.

Easy wanted Elizabeth. Now that made sense. She wondered how far he’d go to find their daughter.

She slammed the cabinet shut and studied the kitchen. The old cabinets showed their age. The walls had been painted an odd shade of blue-green by the previous owners. When her next royalty check came in, she intended to redo the kitchen. She had plans for this house, plans for her life. Easy threatened her future, her happiness and her hard-won peace.

The telephone rang, startling her. Fearing it might be Easy, she waited for the answering machine to screen the call. Margaret’s brash voice insisted Catherine pick up the line.

Catherine snatched up the telephone. “I’m here! What’s up?” She noticed the light blinking on the answering machine, indicating she had other messages.

“I’m glad I caught you. We have a problem.”

Catherine chuckled, partly in relief because it was Margaret and not Easy, but mostly because Margaret thrived on crises and problems. “As long as you don’t make me speak in front of a crowd, I can handle it.”

“Does a press conference qualify as a crowd?”

It took a few seconds for her agent’s meaning to sink in. Catherine nearly choked. “Margaret! You know I hate publicity. I can’t do tours and press things. They make me crazy.” The mere idea of having to speak to a group of strangers filled her belly with ice.

“Settle down. You won’t actually have to say anything. All you have to do is stand there and look cute. You are cute, aren’t you? Do your publicity photos do you justice?”

Catherine groaned and sank onto a chair. “Spill it, Margaret. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been on the phone with Doc Halladay’s publicist The good doctor wants to meet you.”

Catherine had illustrated stories, books and articles for dozens of writers, none of whom she’d met face-to-face. She’d spoken to many of them on the telephone or via fax transmissions, but she’d never done a job that required personal contact. “Whatever for?”

“We’re dealing with television people. They spend the majority of their lives in meetings and at lunch. They like personal contact.”

“Do I have to go to New York? Or Los Angeles?”

“Actually…Halladay is coming to you. He wants to see you in your natural environment, so to speak.” Margaret paused, dramatically. “He wants to do a segment for his show. Your studio, where you live, blah-de-blah.”

“No.” Catherine shook her head vehemently.

“You don’t have a choice, sweetie. Publicity is part of the deal, and since Doc Halladay is the star, he calls the shots.” Another dramatic pause. “If you don’t do this, the deal is off.”

Catherine gazed haplessly at her studio. Filled with secondhand furniture and found treasures, it seemed amateurish and messy, more like a child’s playroom than the workplace of a serious artist. A real artist had handcrafted beechwood worktables, custom lighting, overhead projectors and chaise longues. Catherine kept brushes in old coffee cups and used pushpins to hang photographs on the walls. As soon as Doc Halladay saw her home, he’d know Catherine was a fraud.

‘‘Doc Halladay is rich. He probably has servants. I don’t even have good china. How can I let him in my house?”

“You don’t have to impress the man with furs and feather boas. You’ve already impressed the hell out of him with your work. Trust me, he’s not going to do anything to make you look bad. It’ll be fun, sweetie. He’s a good sport and his people are total professionals.”

Fun…Compared to displaying herself in public, breaking her fingers with a hammer would be fun. “Does this mean I have to do a book tour, too?”

“Mmm. In a word, yes.”

Catherine groaned again. “This is getting totally out of hand. I don’t know if I can do this. I’m so stupid around strangers. My hands sweat and my face breaks out. I stutter!”

“Relax. Think about the money. Tons and tons of money. Think about awards and prestige and how this will establish you as the artist of the decade. This could be your life’s work.”

Catherine pressed a hand flat between her breasts. “My heart is pounding already. I feel sick. You don’t know how terrified I am of public speaking. I can’t do it, Margaret.”

“Yes, you can and you will. Even the best actors get stage fright. Tell you what, I’ll come out to Colorado. I’ll hold your hand. We’ll find you a hypnotist or some drugs. Whatever it takes.”

“There’s no way to get out of it?”

“I’m afraid not. You’ll do fine. I’ll make sure you do fine. Just keep thinking about the money.”

Feeling as if she’d been handed down a sentence of execution, Catherine closed her eyes and rubbed her aching temples. “We’ll figure out something,” she said weakly.

“That’s my girl!”

“When does Doc Halladay want to meet me?”

“Nothing firm yet. I got the impression it’ll be sometime next month. Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to prepare. You’ll be all right with this, sweetie, trust me. Who knows, you might find out you’re a ham at heart and you love it.”

“That’ll take more than hypnotism, it’ll take a miracle.” She wondered if it were possible to hire a stand-in to impersonate her.

After she hung up the telephone, she realized she hadn’t told Margaret about her engagement to Jeffrey. Nor had she mentioned Easy Martel—

She gasped and caught the base of her throat with both hands. Easy! She envisioned him embroiling her in a court case over parental rights. Tying her up with lawyers and depositions. The story would show up in the newspapers. Or in the tabloids! Doc Halladay’s sole purpose in life was teaching children. He didn’t preach religion, but he did set a good example of respect, clean living and character. He wouldn’t like his book illustrator publicly unmasked as a liar who denied a man his parental rights.

Oscar nudged her knee with his nose. He eyed her with an expression of concern. She ruffled his silky ears.