Chapter Three
Much later that day, the phone buzzed and diverted her thoughts, tangled with the effects of her fourteen-hour day, sliding from one mini-crisis to the next. Too tired to lift the receiver, Caitlin depressed the speaker option. “Caitlin Donnelly.”
No response, no hang up, just soft breathing.
“Caitlin Donnelly speaking.” Her voice, louder, more assertive, prodded the caller. All it accomplished was to intensify the erratic breathing at the other end. Disgusted, she disconnected the call. A quick punching of buttons transferred all her calls to the main switchboard, which would greet further calls with a taped message.
That had been the fourth call like that today. All she needed now was some bad-ass who got his jollies breathing into telephones. While she packed up her briefcase and cleared her desk for the day, Caitlin watched her phone light up three more times. Just ridiculous. What a welcome back to the real world.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her door just before Horace, the night security guard, entered. His broad, weather-beaten face looked concerned.
“Kinda late tonight, ain’t you, Ms. Donnelly? The weather’s whippin’ up a nasty March storm out there. You should be home, all warm and toasty.”
“I’m on my way now, Horace. I have to collect a few things to take with me.”
“You work too hard, all the time here late and bringin’ stuff home. Want maybe I should walk you to your car?”
She slipped into her trench coat as footsteps approached in the hall. Those footsteps coupled with a voice. “Not necessary. I’ll walk her out since I’m heading in that direction.” She glanced up to see Mike standing in the hall, filling the doorway. “You stay this late every night?”
“More often than not. I get a lot of paperwork accomplished when no one’s around.” She finished buttoning her coat.
“Maybe no one on your staff’s around, but I practically fell over some big guy skulking behind those storage bins near your corridor entrance.” He looked a twin to her with his trench coat and bulging briefcase.
“If you’re trying to frighten me, it won’t work. You probably saw one of the factory slackers, hoping to grab a smoke between Horace’s rounds and away from Dan Hall’s eagle eye.”
Caitlin turned to the guard and introduced the two men. “Thanks, Horace, but it looks like Mr. Rafferty’s leaving now, so I’ll walk out with him.”
Shaking hands, both men assessed each other, taking measure like two bull seals on a beach. Horace winked at her. Mike had passed his measuring stick.
“Guess I’ll mosey out near those bins and see what I scare up. Did the guy look like he belonged here, Mr. Rafferty?”
“He dressed the part. Why do you ask? Aren’t the entrances locked securely?”
Caitlin could almost visualize the red flags in Mike’s speech—plant security lax? Check that out tomorrow. Another item on his growing list. Yes, he had her dedication and workaholic nature. Just what the plant needed.
“Could be better. Them that know the place, know you can get in real easy like, near the specialized manufacturin’ unit, just down the way from here. I check that entrance a lot.”
“We’ll have to talk about that, Horace—soon. How about tomorrow before your shift? I should be set up in my office by then and I’d appreciate your input.” The guard nodded, looking pleased with Mike and his interest in tightening things up.
Caitlin knew Horace. He liked things buttoned up and squared away, probably from his military background. The guard would find Mike was solid, energetic, and not afraid of the fight. Tomorrow, he’d be telling her all this. He’d mention casually that for a “suit guy” this new plant manager had follow-through, not “shit for brains,” which was how he once described Kirby.
Caitlin locked her door and stood next to the two men. “By the way, Horace, have you seen my fig tree on your rounds?” The three of them headed down the hall.
“Hey...Rachel told me about that. I ain’t seen it; I been lookin’ around, pokin’ my nose into things. I cain’t even say I r’member any strange happenings near your office. I’ll keep lookin’ though.” They arrived at the entranceway to the factory. “Guess I’ll try to scare me up a loafer. G’night.” Horace saluted them and turned left while Mike and Caitlin headed toward the office corridor.
“What tree were you talking about?”
“Oh...nothing important. You have a car already?” She gauged the distance to the door. She could manage small talk for that short distance without any damaging mistakes or rekindling of old memories. Then home to put this day in perspective.
“It’s a rental. Don’t change the subject. If something’s nothing, why does a guard know about it?” Mike caught her elbow, forcing her to stop. “Look at me. I should know what’s going on.”
Caitlin halted, but didn’t remove his hand. The dim corridor lighting created interesting shadows on his face. Stop thinking such thoughts.
“There’s no turf issue involved here, Mike. Not everything concerns the plant manager.” She moved further from him.
As if sensing her internal battle, he pulled his hand from her elbow. “Well, security does. And whatever is going on with this ’missing tree’ sure sounds like a security issue to me.”
She turned away from him and started walking again. The outer door and this conversation’s end were mere seconds away. “If I thought plant security was the issue, you and Keith would be the first people I’d talk to, but right now, I don’t think the situation warrants your concern. You have far larger problems to solve. Well, here we are.”
She stopped at the door and glanced outside through the veil of wind-driven snow. Northeast wind meant lake-effect snow. Driving home would be nasty at best.
“Look at that. The last two cars in the management lot.” She attempted a light note to move the conversation away from the vexing tree.
“Looks to me like those shoes of yours will never survive the walk through this wet snow. Of course, I’m not sure I will either. It’s been a few years since I’ve dealt with this kind of weather.”
She caught that trace of southern accent in his baritone voice. She loved that new subtlety in his speech. It instigated long-dead tremors she didn’t want to think about, but knew Rachel would find intriguing. “Then I’ll follow you into town, make sure you’ve regained your snow sense for driving.”
“Great. I’m staying at the Sheraton until I find a place.”
“That’s on my way.”
“Rachel suggested a few places today.” He pulled up his coat collar. “Say…does she have a clone I can hire?” he asked in a teasing voice, as soothing as a creme caramel latte.
“Not that I know about and you can’t have her.”
“Damn.” He held his hand at the door bar. “You ready for this?”
Caitlin nodded, head buried as much as possible into the hood of her coat. Her shoes would be history. “Okay, here goes nothing.” Pushing the door against the buffeting winds, they braved the swirling snow.
Later, Caitlin admitted to herself she liked Mike cleaning off the windows for her, “to save those shoes.” She liked the companionship of following his taillights into town over the lonely snow-drifted country roads. At times, snow fell so densely she felt isolated from the world except for the steady red dots in front of her. Did Mike feel the same as he glimpsed her headlights in his rearview mirror? She shook her head. Foolish thoughts.
Once Mike turned off at the hotel’s entrance with a quick beep of his horn, she fought a bucking wind and snow so dense the light from her headlights bounced back at her. With none of the roads plowed, she crept toward home. Although she stayed focused on her driving, she did think once or twice about liquid smoke eyes and a voice with a southern cadence. Both warmed her.
Turning off the lakeshore highway, she fishtailed into the tree-tunneled icy drive to her condo. Tonight the roar of an angry Lake Michigan and the whipping wind whining through the trees fed her turmoil. The round snow-crusted globes of the ground’s lights illuminated her drive through the ravine, past the parking lot, and into her attached garage. Caitlin exhaled and turned off the ignition. She leaned her head against the leather headrest.
“Thanks.” She patted the dashboard. “You did good in this nasty stuff.” She didn’t think to check her car once she entered her garage, just scooted inside to warmth, dry shoes and comfy sweats.
Dinner was an apple and a Diet Coke. Afterward, swaddled under down quilts on her bed, she finally attacked the reports that had been waiting for her that morning. The thundering surf crashing outside her bedroom window, coupled with the boring reports, soon lulled her to sleep.
****
Jangling rings blasted in her ear, pulling Caitlin from sleep. Outside the wind sounded like a two-hundred car freight train slamming continually against the condo’s stone exterior. Wind-whipped, angry surf crashed against the enormous man-made breakers guarding the shoreline. She shook sleep from her mind and found the phone on the fourth ring. Her digital alarm clock read five-thirty.
“H’lo?” She scrunched up against the brass headboard. Forcing her eyes wide open, she stared straight ahead, willing herself to wake up.
“Keith here. Sheriff’s department just called. All county roads are officially closed. This storm’s forecasted to last at least another twelve hours. I shut down the plant after second shift last night as well as for today. Called all the management staff. They’ll alert their key people. You call the local radio and TV stations to announce the closing. Let the union committee know so they can get the word out, too. Also, contact Rafferty and tell him.”
“I’m on it.” She pulled her emergency list of names and numbers from her nightstand’s orderly drawer.
“Call me later today. We’ll do assessment for tomorrow. I’m told this is supposed to be the storm of the century. Any questions?”
“None. I’ll check back with you around noon.” She cut the connection, but didn’t beat Keith. Some day she’d achieve that goal. Making her calls was easy. Knowing everyone got the message soon enough worried her some, but geez, if a worker went outside, common sense should drive them back in.
Now for Mike. She found the hotel number in the directory and dialed, asking to be rung through to Mr. Rafferty’s room. She heard the phone ring—five, ten, fifteen times. Finally, the operator came on the line, offering to page him. “I’m sure I saw him go into the coffee shop.”
“Thanks.” No one should be up and ready for work on such a day as this. A twinge of something pricked her conscience. Jealousy…maybe? Proprietary rights…possibly? It didn’t sit well that Mike’s whereabouts elicited another female’s interest? She waited, drumming her fingers against the telephone directory. What difference should it make to her?
“Rafferty here.”
His voice jolted her, its immediacy reaching across the snowy miles. “Good morning, this is Caitlin. Sorry to bother you during breakfast, but Keith closed the plant for today.”
She heard a muffled “damn.”
“The sheriff’s closed all county roads because the snow’s impossible to remove with this wind. You’ve likely forgotten about blizzards.”
“Not really forgotten; more like shoved out of my mind.” She heard him sip something. An instant need for caffeine blossomed at that sound.
“I’m told the weather people are referring to this as the storm of the century.”
“Perfect. I’ve had more experience with hurricanes and flash floods lately. But I think I prefer snow. At least it’s prettier.”
“Only for a few hours. Then it’s slushy and dirty.” She heard nothing for a few seconds.
“No one can get out there?”
“Impossible. The county roads are impassable, definitely not safe. However, from the look of your briefcase last night, you have a few things to keep you busy, without interruptions. Always a gift to treasure.”
“True, but I hate hotel rooms,” Mike paused for a moment. “What about the city streets? They any better?”
“Doubt it. Everything’s closed, Mike. The local radio and TV stations will be giving bulletins and updates all day, but this is one of those storms when people just burrow into their homes.” And make cookies and chili to pass the time. “Surely you remember them.”
“I do. Home’s great if you’ve got one. Well, at least there’s a pool and exercise room here. I guess I can start calling those rental places Rachel told me about yesterday. Damn. They’re probably closed, too.” She heard him exhale. “Days like this my mom made soup and bread. If we were lucky, she made cookies, too.”
“What are you looking for? Cookies and comfort or a place to hang your hat?” Caitlin pulled the down quilt up to her chin and snuggled into its warmth.
“For now? Cookies and comfort would be nice, but a small place to hang my hat is all I need, until I know exactly what I want. Has to be furnished, too, since I don’t own a thing.” From the sounds at the other end, Mike was drinking again.
“You drinking coffee?” she blurted out, wishing she had hers.
“I am. It’s good and strong. Maybe I should stay here.”
“I thought you might be with your mom.” Why hadn’t Mike accumulated possessions in these past fourteen years?
From the sounds coming from the phone, he was sipping another jolt of coffee. “She’d love that, but I’m not getting into that rut—even short-term. She’s one of the reasons I came back here. She’s slowing down.”
Caitlin’s mind flashed an image of a compact, rather short, gray-haired woman, soft-spoken but gently manipulative, especially to an older son with a deep sense of family responsibility. The responsibility had made the boy a man well before his time. So he’s gotten a grip on Mama; good for him. She knew about families and mothers—especially Irish ones.
“I could write a book about aging parents.”
“I could add a chapter or two.”
She sensed he wanted to say more, but she wouldn’t give him the opportunity. Not yet. “I’m keeping you from your breakfast. Besides, I need my own coffee. It’s programmed to wake me up and the aroma’s tantalizing me right now.” She heard Mike’s quick intake of breath.
“You’re not keeping me from anything that important, but I have my coffee. Why don’t I call you later? I’ll probably have questions about that material Rachel thrust on me and maybe I’ll have some leads on a place.”
“Fine. Neither of us is going anywhere.” End this conversation right now. She had to admit she didn’t want to. Where did her usual reserve go?
“In that case, I’ll need your number. It’s unlisted.”
“You know that?”
“Sure do. I checked as soon as I arrived the other night.” Mike’s voice lowered, going into a deeper range.
The teeniest glimmer of pleasure erupted within her at his admission, but she tamped it down before it blazed. “Unlisted cuts down on unwanted calls.”
“Like mine?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m HR. Workers drink and dial when times get tough.” She gave him the number. “Don’t write it down—memorize it. I only hand this information out once.”
He repeated the number. “Memorized, not written. Under water torture, I won’t reveal it.” He started humming the Mission Impossible theme, slightly off-key.
That produced a deep belly laugh in her. “Good. You’d be surprised who might tempt you for that information.”
“Had some problems, Cait?”
She caught the rising chivalry behind his words. “No more than anyone in my position.”
“Ah, the famous Donnelly independence rears up. Some things never change. Bet most of those are males and married ones at that. Do the workers get too rambunctious?”
“Only when they aren’t happy or are denied ’rights’ they feel are theirs. Or I implement new work sanctions. But mostly, issues occur when I don’t live up to their expectations of a woman’s place.” Over ten years of “rambunctious” men were lumped into that swift summary. She put life and men in perspective whenever possible.
“Your position puts you into some pretty precarious situations.”
“It could, Mike. Your predecessor didn’t help much, but I’m tough...and determined.”
“Hell, I remember that! Those circumstances can’t make your work environment pleasant. We should talk about that soon.”
“Why?” Her voice turned defensive.
“So this plant manager shows his support.”
She relaxed for a moment, but in rethinking the exchange, grew uncomfortable at his tone. “Right. Pencil me into your schedule sometime after Horace.”
“Done.”
“I really do need my morning coffee. Call later if you have questions. I should be home unless I try some cross-country skiing around here for exercise.”
“I just programmed you into my cell’s speed dial, under MI. Got a problem with that?”
“Only if the enemy gets it.” They said a quick goodbye.
The disconnection saddened her as she replaced her phone on its base. Her aloneness assaulted her. Her usually comforting bedroom looked as bleak and cold as the snowy outdoors. She shivered as her feet hit the carpeted floor.
The day sped as quickly as the snow mounted into drifts. Caitlin worked her way through her briefcase, which took the morning. Bundling up, she donned skis for a brisk tour of the condo complex. Back inside, she baked chocolate chip cookies, which she never did. Way too tempting, she remembered as she popped an oven-warm cookie into her mouth and savored the oozing chocolate at the back of her tongue. In between putting sheets of them into the oven, she made a pot of chili, far too much for her. She wondered who would eat it all as she talked with Keith. With the weather forecast still uncertain and no let-up in sight, they made no decisions.
Just after four o’clock, the lights flickered and went out. She sat in an easy chair in front of the patio doors, a flickering three-wick candle and the dwindling gloom of day offering the only light as she contemplated the tempestuous lake and the deepening drifts of snow. A bestseller lay across her lap, opened but only partly read.
By seven, the winds died down, the snow tapered to flurries, and the power had returned. Restless, Caitlin turned on the news and weather station. When the phone rang, she jumped.
“We’ll open the plant tomorrow. Usual time. Plow crews are cleaning out the parking lots now.” Her caller needed no identification.
“I’ll make my calls.”
“Don’t forget Rafferty.” Despite her readiness, Keith broke the connection first.
Even with good reason for calling Mike when she picked up the phone, intimidation roiled inside her. Her fingers trembled as she punched his number into the telephone. This was business. Quit acting like a teenager. She held her breath while the call connected.
At the other end of the line, the phone rang, but no one answered. This time she let the phone ring only seven times. Disappointed, she pushed the number for the switchboard and left a very impersonal message.
At the disconnection, both relief and disappointment buffeted her. She showered, ate some chili, and headed for bed with her book and a napkin full of cookies. She didn’t find herself interested in sleep, the cookies or a steamy sex scene in the novel, especially when she remembered the note and her lost tree. And Mike. Okay, replace the plant and forget the message. Dealing with Mike was another matter.