I love her still.
But she only knows Steps the FBI tracker. What happens if she meets the other Steps, the real Steps? Will she be repulsed? Horrified? Intrigued? Will she put pen to paper and carve out an exposé eviscerating the Special Tracking Unit and laying bare the fraud of its chief tracker?
I’d rather not take that chance, so I’ll bury my heart deep so it can’t be found. I’ll get through this dinner—somehow—and then get on with life. Alone. Maybe love is not meant for everyone. Maybe that’s the price some pay.
*
She’s waiting in front of the restaurant when Jimmy pulls up. Waves of dancing heat rise above her and around her, emanating from a flaming basin placed within the landscaping behind her, but they may as well be emanating from her. She’s stunning, breathtaking, every inch the woman I remember, though more beautiful from her absence.
“Holy crap,” Jimmy mutters as his eyes fix on Heather.
It’s not really swearing, but still surprising coming from Jimmy’s lips. He loathes profanity like I loathe forests, coffee, animals, and Styrofoam. This contempt doesn’t prevent the occasional spontaneous utterance, however, which explains the Holy crap that just spilled out of his mouth. Fortunately, crap is on our list of acceptable words, so he gets a pass this time.
I’ve always been fascinated by word origins and find it interesting that the root of profanity, the Latin word profanus, translates to “outside the temple” and was taken to mean something that desecrates what is holy. But what if you are in a wholly unholy environment? How can you desecrate the holy when there’s nothing holy in sight?
I imagine that’s why cops cuss more than librarians.
Jimmy’s objection to foul language isn’t based on his religious beliefs, though. He avoids such language out of respect for what he calls the “higher mind.” He’s told me repeatedly through the years that profanity is the refuge of a simple mind, and that people who swear excessively lack the imagination to think of anything better. He once told me that profanity pushes the mind into the sewer of human wretchedness and drags the soul along for company.
I’ve argued that in law enforcement you often have to speak the language of your audience. I’ve known detectives who could talk to clergy one moment, and then dive into a sea of the filthiest profanity with a heroin addict the next. It’s an amazing process to watch, almost like they flip a switch and become a different person.
Of course, most deputies, officers, and detectives lack that unusual gift and have to muck around somewhere in the middle range, which means they occasionally drop the F-bomb in front of clergy or say hallelujah to the heroin addict.
It’s not that Jimmy doesn’t curse, but it’s a rare occasion, and shocking to behold. He’s quite good at it when he wants to be. Over the years we’ve established certain words that are acceptable within our one-on-one conversations. These include damn, dammit, and hell, though he prefers the minced oaths darn, darnit, and heck.
The minced oaths shoot, friggin’, bull snot, and bull hockey are also acceptable, though I’ve yet to use the latter two in conversation.
Ass is acceptable … surprisingly.
I had to argue for it, however, pointing out that it’s the common term for a donkey and has historical precedence in the Bible and literature. Nevertheless, Jimmy was not happy when I uttered it in front of Petey one day. It was strictly by accident and my attempts to smooth it over where less than successful. I told Petey we don’t call people asses, we call them donkeys.
A week later we were in the lounge at Hangar 7 watching some G-rated movie—I don’t remember which one. It was just me, Jimmy, and Petey; Jane wasn’t there, which is why I’m still alive. Halfway through the show, Petey points at the bad guy and says, “He’s a real donkey-hole, isn’t he, Uncle Steps?”
Yep. Not one of my finer moments.
*
Heather cuts a demure pose, hands clasped together in front of her as if she’s unsure what to do with them; her long hair is as I remember it, her face, her posture, her grace. She’s wearing a breathtaking V-shaped silk blouse in soft lime with cascading ruffles that end at a point halfway between her waist and her knees in front and well past her knees in the back. This is complemented by black denim stretch jeans that empty into a pair of black high-heeled Michael Kors sandals.
I know my shoes.
When we first met, she was a twenty-three-year-old up-and-coming reporter, one year out of grad school, who had already made a name for herself with an online investigative news blog she founded and edited. Newsweek scooped her up before the ink was dry on her diploma and she soon found herself specializing in crime and criminal justice stories, including a major piece on the Porsche Novatny abduction and murder that had so captivated the public that year.
“Heather,” I breathe.
“Steps.” The corner of her mouth curls up temptingly, teasingly. “You know you’re almost late?”
I grin. “Almost late is right on time.”
“Same old Steps,” she says, shaking her head.
I study her a moment, devour her.
“It’s good to see you,” I finally say. “You look … hot.”
She begins to smile, but then I hurriedly add, “Let’s go inside where it’s a bit cooler.”
I hold the door open and she brushes briskly past. For a moment I wish she’d turn around and club me over the head; it would serve me right.
Let’s go inside where it’s a bit cooler?
I don’t even know why I said it. What an idiot! Of course I meant the other hot. Why wouldn’t I? She’s gorgeous, always has been. I’m about to quick-step after her, spin her around, and apologize when it hits me like a two-by-four to the forehead: Stick to the plan; bury your heart; let her go. Thirty seconds in her presence and she’s already turning me against myself.