Running Hot

THIRTY-NINE

The following afternoon Luther suggested they close the restaurant for a couple of days. Petra and Wayne didn’t have any issues with that decision.

“Could use a break,” Wayne said. “Some of the tourist customers are startin’ to irritate me. I think I’m losin’ that aloha spirit.”

“Same here,” Petra said. “Been a long time since we took a vacation.”

It was four o’clock, the lull after the lunch rush. They were all standing around in the Rainbow’s kitchen. Grace looked at the three of them and felt a sudden, inexplicable urge come over her.

“I think I found something important in the classified J&J files today,” she said. “It’s a long story. What do you say we have dinner tonight and I’ll tell you all about it. I’d like to get your thoughts before I contact Fallon Jones.”

Petra grinned and clapped Luther on the shoulder. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a date.”

“No,” Grace said. “All of us. At Luther’s place. I’m cooking. You know, like a family dinner.”

. . .

SHE BORROWED THE COOKWARE she needed from the Rainbow’s kitchen and hauled it back to the apartment in the Jeep. She made lasagna—a vegetarian version with feta cheese and spinach—and served it with a big bowl of Caesar salad and a loaf of warm, crusty bread.

Bruno the Wonder Dog’s ferocious barking announced the arrival of Petra and Wayne. Luther opened the front door to let them in and handed around some bottles of beer.

They drank the beer and talked about unimportant things, saving the serious stuff until after dinner. The balmy night air was warm and comforting against Grace’s skin. A faint breeze stirred the magnificent green canopy of the banyan tree.

When she brought out the large pan of lasagna, Luther, Petra and Wayne gazed at it as if it were the Holy Grail. She used a spatula to serve large slices.

“Can’t remember the last time I had lasagna,” Petra said reverently. “My mom used to make it when I was a kid.”

They all looked at her.

“What?” she said.

“Hard to imagine you as a little kid,” Luther said. “With an actual mom.”

Petra used her fork to cut off a large bite of the lasagna. “Everyone has a mom.”

“Where is she now?” Grace asked.

“She died when I was sixteen. Cancer.”

“Forgive me,” Grace said. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

“Don’t worry about it. Been a long time. After she died I went to live with my dad and his second wife, but we didn’t get along so good. He kicked me out when I was seventeen. Don’t blame him. I’d have done the same. I was not in a good place. He said I was a bad influence on his other kids, the ones he and his new wife had.”

“I had a mom, too,” Wayne said around a mouthful of bread. “She didn’t cook much, though. She was more into martinis and pills. Called ’em her little mood elevators. She used to hide the bottles around the house so my dad wouldn’t find them.”

“That had to be hard for you,” Grace said. She reached for the salad tongs and told herself she would not ask any more questions.

“Dad knew about the pills and the booze,” Wayne said. “He told me a few years later that was why he took off with his secretary when I was eleven.”

“You’re not supposed to call ’em secretaries anymore,” Petra informed him with an air of authority. “They’re administrative assistants or somethin’.”

“I knew that,” Wayne said.

She should definitely change the subject now, Grace thought, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from asking one more question.

“What happened to your mother, Wayne?”

“Pretty much what you’d expect.” He shrugged. “A few months after Dad split, she took a lot of pills and made a really big pitcher of martinis. I found her dead on the sofa the next morning.”

No one said a thing. Petra and Luther concentrated on the lasagna on their plates. They all knew one another’s stories, she thought. And now she knew them, too. It was one of the ways they were linked together.

On impulse she set the tongs aside.

“I’m so sorry you had to be the one to find her,” she said quietly.

“Like Petra said, it was a long time ago.”

She realized all three had stopped eating. They were staring at Wayne’s heavily tattooed forearm, which happened to be resting on the table next to her. She looked, too, and saw that her palm was resting on his warm, bare skin in a comforting gesture that partially covered a portion of a skull and crossbones.

“Why can I touch you?” she asked. Slowly she raised her hand and held it in front of her face. “Why can I touch all of you without pain? After that incident with the housekeeper, I should have been sensitive for at least a week or longer.”

Petra’s expression tightened in a knowing look. “When did you get burned the first time?”

Her first impulse was to say she didn’t want to talk about the past. But they had shared their stories with her. They had a right to know; she

wanted them to know.

“In a foster home,” she said, automatically putting both hands out of sight under the table. “I was . . . attacked. When the bastard touched me I sort of . . . touched him back. He died.”

Petra nodded, unperturbed. Wayne looked equally unconcerned. He forked up another bite of lasagna. Luther drank some beer and waited.

“How old were you when you did the guy in the foster home?” Petra asked.

“Fourteen,” she said, wincing a little at the expression “did the guy.”

“You would have been just coming into your talent,” Petra said. “The Society shrinks believe that a traumatic event during that time can really screw up your senses, sometimes for life. My guess is the shock of the attack together with the psychic jolt you must have got when you whacked the SOB who tried to rape you left you with a real delicate sensitivity to touch.”

Luther looked at Petra. “You talked to a Society psychologist?”

“Wayne and I both went for a while after we retired from the agency,” Petra said. “We were having trouble sleeping and some other problems. The doc explained a lot of stuff to us.”

“That’s right,” Wayne said. “She told us that, what with our dysfunctional childhoods and the kind of work we did for the agency, we both had a lot of issues. Said she couldn’t cure us but she kept us from eating our own guns.”

Petra turned back to Grace. “Thing is, what with having been a foster kid and then having a couple of little psychic incidents, you’re probably a tad messed up, too.”

Grace clamped her hands very tightly together in her lap. “Little psychic incidents? I

killed two people with my aura.”

“And I used a rifle,” Wayne said. He ripped off another chunk of bread and reached for the butter knife. “Doesn’t matter how you do it. Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to pay for it in the psychic zone. Looks like, in your case, your sense of touch was permanently affected.”

She stilled. “Then why is it I can touch Luther and you and Petra without having to brace myself?”

Petra smiled. Light glinted on the gold ring in her ear. “I’m no expert, but I’m thinking that’s because you feel comfortable with us. You know us for what we are and we know you.”

“Survivors,” Luther said.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Wayne nodded. “One way or another, we’re all survivors. We understand each other. When we’re together, there’s no need to hide. No need to pretend you’re not damaged.”

“No need to be afraid,” Luther said, watching her.

The sudden rush of tears startled her. She blinked them back.

“Family,” she said.

“Yeah,” Petra said. “Family. Can I have another slice of lasagna?”

Grace gave her a misty smile.

“Yes,” she said. “You may have as much as you want.”

“Don’t tell her that,” Wayne said quickly. “She’ll eat the rest of it. Luther and I haven’t had seconds yet.”

“Nobody likes a whiner,” Petra said. “You know, maybe we should put lasagna on the menu at the Rainbow. Got a hunch the regulars would go for it. It’s not fried, but it’s not bad.”