Shooting
the Moon
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Chapter I. Chapter II. Chapter III. Chapter IV. Chapter V. Chapter VI. Chapter VII. Chapter VIII. Chapter IX. Chapter X. Chapter XI. |
In the morning, she discovered how agile she could be at pulling on her sweats while she ran for the bathroom. Returning moments later, she closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, patted her tummy and sighed, "Michael, meet the bud. He and I differ on how I should start the day." She gestured toward Michael. "Bud, meet the man who made you what you are today." She crossed to the bed and collapsed on the edge of it next to her lover, who had pulled on his jeans in her absence. Now he tried to draw her head to his shoulder, but she pushed him gently away. "Ugh. Don't. Not 'til I brush my teeth."
"Are you all right?"
"What do you think? Come on. This isn't exactly virgin territory for you, is it?"
"I wasn't there for her very much." Hand on her knee. Lashes brushing his cheeks. Voice all but inaudible.
Excellent, Nikita. Just excellent. "I'm sorry."
"It couldn't be helped."
"That's not what I meant." Laying her hand on his bent head, she shook it gently. "Pit stop? You do not want to be in the way if I have to make another rapid egress."
While he was gone, she remained slumped on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, head hanging dejectedly. When he returned, she beheld with awe Michael Samuelle, master spy, barefoot and shirtless, looking like a lost boy.
"She doesn't have a shower."
This time she did not giggle. She laughed, and then tried to smother it with her hand, fearing that Chauncey might shout again if he were startled. But as soon as she succeeded, laughter turned to tears. Keeping her hand over her mouth, she continued to weep even after Michael sat next to her and pulled her into his arms.
Finally the storm passed. She raised her head, sure that her face must look ravaged, and saw in his eyes that she was beautiful.
"Biscuits."
They stood in the kitchen doorway, hand-in-hand, while Helen--wearing yet another tweed skirt and cardigan--puttered about a gas stove on legs, her back to them after wishing them a brisk good morning.
Did the whole family have a thing about turning their backs on you?
"You mean...crackers?"
"On the bedside table. You eat one slowly before you sit up, and another before you stand. Will you have mush now?"
Realizing what they'd been asked, Nikita felt her stomach lurch. "Uh, no thanks. Not for me." Michael shook his head. "Can we make ourselves some toast?"
"It's here in the oven. No butter, mind. Smitch of jam won't hurt, though, if you fancy it."
The toast felt like sandpaper on the outside but was inexplicably soft and crumbly within, hot enough but not too hot. The smitch of jam tasted like heaven, and Helen's tea smelled wonderful.
When Michael told her as much, she gave him a speculative look but did not answer. His "Thank you for your hospitality" elicited an approving "Mmmmmm." Then she departed for the pantry, where she proceeded to putter some more.
Chauncey lay with his head on his paws, favoring them with a mournful but alert stare.
When it became clear that Helen did not plan to return any time soon, Nikita said, "Now tell me more about you. Not just the yes and no part."
His expression became guarded. "There's not much to tell yet."
"Okay, about Adam, then. How is he?"
Michael sighed. "Confused. Conflicted. He doesn't understand why his mother can't come back from the dead too."
"Poor little kid." Since Michael did not appear to be any more talkative than usual, she went on--again expecting him to look away as soon as she spoke. "You don't have a Mediterranean tan yet. But I bet he does." He did not look away, but his expression became even more guarded. "The couple you helped--are they still there?"
"Stop now."
"Oh, Michael. If you really didn't want me to know where you are, you wouldn't have gone there." Looking down now, he took her hand and began to stroke the back of it with one finger. "What are you doing?"
"Valentining you." He looked up, his expression all but blank, but with a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth.
"Was that a concession speech or a cheap shot?"
"Cheap shot. What else?" Looking away again: "I have to go."
She'd known this was coming, but hoped not this soon. Keeping her voice light: "So soon?"
"I have contacts in M15 who owe me. That's how I entered the country undocumented and got past the watch Center has on you. But once I choose the time, it has to be on their schedule, not mine." She nodded, mute. "Nikita--keep a tight rein on Darwin and the others."
"You wouldn't believe how much they've grown up."
"Just do it."
"We'll see."
He rose, pulled her to her feet, and kissed her as though there were no tomorrow because there might not be. Then he kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, her open hands. And then he was gone.
Chauncey looked after him, yawned, and relaxed.
After a time Helen returned from the pantry, glanced toward the back door, poured herself a cup of tea and sat down at the table opposite her niece. "Doesn't hang about long, does he?"
Unable to answer, Nikita shook her head.
"I think you must do some sort of undercover work. Philip, too. That's why he disappeared without a trace, and why you won't tell me how he died. You're in it, but Michael's not. Is he on the run?"
"Please stop."
"Is he on the run from something?"
"No. Helen, stop."
"If this man and your child mean so much more to you than your job does, why can't you just resign and go to him?"
"I can't ever resign, and I can't protect you and Chauncey if you won't stop this!"
"Ch--? Why--who would want to hurt Chauncey?"
"If I answer that, you're as good as dead. Chauncey, too, if he tries to protect you. Will you please just leave it alone?"
Neither of them moved for a time. Then Helen asked, "What will you do with the child when it's born?"
If in doubt, censor out. "I don't know yet." She hoped that the next lie would be easier. Even more, she hoped there need be only one more lie. "Have you decided to let me come back in a month?"
"I thought perhaps I might, yes."
"If you don't promise to stawp questioning me, I cahn't come back!"
"Was your mother Australian? Or is that a forbidden subject too?"
Lowering her head, Nikita ran her hands through her hair. This day had only just started, and already she was exhausted. "I was living with a foster mother while I was learning to talk."
"Did she take good care of you?"
"The best."
"You loved her."
"Yeah, I did." It felt like a betrayal even now. Tit for tat, Mom. See? You didn't love me enough to keep me, but I got you for it, didn't I?
"And she loved you. Someone must have. You love so strongly."
"Because of Katie?" The thought had never occurred to her.
But before she could make it her own, Helen asked, "Why did your mother abandon you when you were what--less than a year old?
"She had a new boyfriend, and she wanted to live alone with him for a while."
"A while?"
"I told you. Several years."
"Same man all that time?"
"No."
"And when it suited her, she took you back. When you were what--three or four?"
"Almost five."
Helen made a small, disgusted noise. "What could Philip have been thinking of?"
"They were friends. She wasn't with anyone else at the time."
"How do you know that if she never told you anything important? Did Philip tell you?"
"Helen, I can't do this now. Some other time. Please?"
"How do you keep going under so much stress?"
"I'm not under this much stress most of the time." What the hell was she saying? "I guess you can get used to just about anything if you have to."
"You're good at what you do?"
"Very."
"That's what makes things bearable, you know." Without waiting for agreement or denial, Helen rose, took up her cane, and limped toward the door to the hallway. Over her shoulder: "Come along. We need to talk about vitamins."
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