Two

      The key was in the corner of the window flower box where Becky always kept it. Catherine shook off a clump of dirt and inserted it into the lock. Once inside she shut the door behind her, leaned against it and heard the Jeep pull away. She filled her lungs with air, closed her eyes, and let out a long, slow breath.

      No! She wouldn’t think about it now. She had to keep moving. Impatiently tugging at her back zipper, she ran up the stairs. If she hurried maybe she could be out of here before anyone arrived. This would be the first place they’d look.

      She found the new smoky blue silk pants and matching top laid out on the bedspread where she’d left them. A pair of white sandals waited at the foot of the bed, a small white leather purse beside them. The dress fell in a heap at her feet, the balled paper in the bodice tumbling loose. She scooped it up and shoved it in her purse, then kicked the dress aside. She continued kicking it as she finished tucking the top into the pants, the phone propped between her ear and shoulder.

      A gravelly voice came over the line. “North Oakland Taxi.”

      “I’m a block north of Lincoln, east of Woodward. How fast can you get here?”

      “Where ya goin’?”

      She hadn’t thought that far. Once she was in the cab she’d figure out the next step. For now she’d tell him anything. “Downtown Detroit.”

      Catherine gave the address, hung up and did a quick survey of the room. There were a couple of large suitcases by the door and a matching burgundy carry on. Ever since the first time her luggage had been lost on a buying trip three years ago, she’d always packed a change of clothes, swimsuit and all toiletries in her carryon. She eyed the suitcases a moment, remembering the hours of planning and shopping for just the right trousseau. Before the first tear could come she swallowed hard, flung the carryon over her shoulder and ran down the stairs.

      For the first time she noticed the glow of a kitchen light and the note left on the counter. She looked out the front door. No sign of the cab yet. She debated a second, then headed for the note knowing what to expect.

      The short message began “Dearest Cat and TJ—I’m so happy for both of you.” She turned the single page facedown and picked up the pen left beside it.

      “Becky, have to be alone for a while—sure you understand. Please call Mom and Dad—tell them I’m okay.” A horn sounded out front and she scribbled a last line. “Tell them I’ll call tomorrow. Love, Cat.”

      She flew down the walk and slid into the back of the cab. “Head south on Woodward. I’ll let you know where in a minute.”

      Where could she go? Any decent hotel would do, but she wasn’t in the mood for a quiet, empty room. What sounded better was a noisy room full of strangers—someplace where she could get a good, stiff drink and feel sorry for herself. She opened her eyes and stared blindly at the passing blur of commercial buildings.

      They were south of Twelve Mile Road before they caught a red light. The cabbie jerked to a stop, and she turned to see the flashing neon outline of a big cat just ahead.

      Before she could think it through she heard herself say, “Let me out here.”

      He pulled to the curb, braking hard, then turned to face her. “Ya sure about this?”

      The meter read eight and a quarter. She slapped a ten into his hand, got out and the cab sped off. She hesitated at the entrance to the bar. Given her current choices she slung open the heavy wooden door and strode in.

      Just as she suspected, a country-western band was keeping two-steppers happy in the center of the room. On the perimeter, boot-stomping spectators kept time at beercluttered tables. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she was in Texas instead of Motown.

      Slowly awakening from culture shock, she noted a few curious glances at her nondenim attire and shoulder-strap carryon. Self-conscience, she sauntered over to the bar on the right where a man she guessed to be in his late fifties sat in a wheelchair at the far end. There was an empty seat next to him. It appeared as safe of a place as any so she headed toward it.

      “Excuse me,” she said, raising her voice over a nearby speaker. “Is anyone sitting here?”

      The man smiled up at her. “You, I hope.”

      The same words from anyone else might have sent her in the opposite direction, but this was the voice of a gentleman, one she sensed wanted a little company and nothing more. “Thank you.” She pulled out the stool and sat down.

      Her gaze drifted slowly over the crowd, looking for that one familiar face. Why? she asked herself. Thought you wanted to be alone in a roomful of strangers? She continued to look, taking her time, telling herself it was something to do. Anything was better than thinking about the disaster she’d just left behind.

      She thought about Jake for a second, remembering his rugged good looks—sun-streaked sandy hair that swept back from windburned cheeks and hung a couple inches below his too-tight collar. She kept searching, smiling at a sudden thought. He must have felt as out of place at the Townsend Hotel in his suit as she felt here in her designer silk.

      Catherine scanned the entire room twice, then gave up, feeling an unexpected disappointment. She swiveled around and rested her elbows on the padded rolled edge of the table-high bar. Curious about the unusual height, she looked to her right and noticed taller stools and the traditionally