Rogue on the Rollaway. Shannon MacLeod

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      Colleen O’Brien sighed with relief when her condo door swung closed behind her, aided by a well-placed hip to speed it on its way. She set the heavy grocery bags down on the tiled foyer then locked the doorknob, the deadbolt, the second deadbolt, and finally both chain locks, giving the last one a tug to make sure it was secure. “Hi, honey–I’m home,” she sang, scooping up the bags to carry to the kitchen. “The shop was a madhouse today. I’m beat, but not too beat to celebrate tonight. No, no–don’t get up, I’ve got it.”

      She began putting the groceries away, starting with the frozen entrees. She stacked them by size, right side up, labels facing out. The individual Weight Watcher desserts were placed next to the dinners, favorites on top. A quart of two percent milk, a carton of eggs, slices of thick ham from the deli, a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese and low fat yogurt found their way into the fridge. Crisp gala apples and ripe bananas were stored in a faux crystal bowl on the countertop.

      Colleen paused to listen. The comfortably appointed condo was silent, as it had been every night since her divorce was final a year ago. She caught sight of herself in the living room mirror and tried not to cringe. Not too bad for twenty nine, she thought, determined to ignore the specter of thirty looming over her shoulder. If the moniker O’Brien didn’t shout her Irish heritage to the high hills, her looks certainly did. Thick chestnut hair too straight to be curly and too curly to be straight fell just past her shoulders, framing a delicate, oval face with high cheekbones. Her eyes were the color of dusty jade, and to her constant mortification she had a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose that no amount of concealer or foundation would hide. Looks like country come to town, her ex husband used to say. Lips just a little too full, mouth a little wide, she turned from side to side, surveying herself with a critical eye. Five foot five inches, one hundred thirty pounds. “Average build, average weight, average life, just average…me. Nothing special here, boys and girls,” she murmured.

      Shrugging off the pending melancholy, she put away the rest of the dry goods and had just popped one of the entrees in the microwave when the doorbell rang. Tossing the empty box in the trash, she ran to the front door, rising up on tiptoe to look through the peephole. “Just a minute,” she called, flicking open the numerous locks with practiced ease.

      Sandy Jasko waited patiently, a shoebox sized parcel plastered with international stamps tucked under her arm. “This came for you down at the complex office, too big for the mailbox,” she explained. “Told them I’d bring it up to you on my way home.”

      Colleen grinned and accepted the package from her next door neighbor and best friend. It was much lighter than it looked. “Come on in,” she said, giving the box an experimental shake and frowning when it made no sound that might indicate its contents.

      “Just for a minute,” Sandy said, stepping past her into the tidy living room. “Bill and I are going out for dinner–we’re going to try that new steakhouse over on the Causeway. You know you’re welcome to join us…”

      Colleen shook her head firmly, setting the package down on the large sectional sofa. “And be a third wheel? Don’t think so. Besides,” she added loftily, “I have my own culinary delights awaiting me.”

      The microwave dinged and Sandy’s eyes narrowed. “Healthy Choice?”

      Colleen nodded enthusiastically. “Manicotti, my favorite. I’m celebrating the loss of two hundred unsightly pounds,” she said.

      The petite brunette’s eyebrows shot up in apparent confusion, but her lip twitching gave her away. “Do tell. What’s your secret?” she asked

      Colleen burst into laughter. “My divorce was final a year ago today,” she explained.

      Sandy laughed too, making her mop of curls bounce. “Marc was a first class asshole, so it’s worth celebrating. It’s not every day one loses that big a chunk of wasted carbon.” She studied her friend a little closer. “You can’t stay locked in here forever, you know,” she said gently. “You’ve got to start getting out, you know, socialize…meet people. Why don’t you join us tonight? Bill has a friend I bet you’ll love…” She launched into her old familiar matchmaking refrain.

      Colleen raised her hands in surrender and laughed. “Your husband always has a friend. I meet people every day at my job, and tonight I’m having dinner with…” She paused to look at the DVDs lined up on her coffee table, “Viggo Mortensen and Orlando Bloom.”

      “Lord of the Rings again?” Sandy rolled her eyes. “God, you are such a geek. How many times–”

      “A bunch. I can recite entire passages and reenact the battle scenes using interpretive dance. Aren’t you going to be late?” Colleen interrupted.

      Sandy looked down at her watch and shrieked at the time. “I gotta go. Call me if you change your mind!”

      “I won’t, but I do appreciate the offer. You go on and have fun. Tell Bill I said hello,” Colleen said, following her friend to the door and relocking herself in before heading to the kitchen. She placed her cooling dinner on the TV tray, grabbed a diet soda and headed for the couch. “I’ll open you after dinner,” she said to the box, pushing it aside to sit down.

      When she was finished, she set the tray aside and eased the box into her lap. “You’re not very heavy,” she mused, looking at all the colorful stamps. After giving her dinner knife a careful lick to catch the last drop of lingering gravy, she used it to cut away the tight packing tape. Her grandmother in Ireland passed away six months ago, and Colleen guessed someone was just now getting around to cleaning out her sprawling farm house. Sure enough, there was a note.

       Dear Colleen

       Your grandmother left specific instructions this was to go to you. Moire O’Brien was a fine woman and will be missed by all who knew her. I am truly sorry for your loss.

       Sincerely,

       Mary Catherine McDermott

      Colleen smiled. She met her grandmother’s neighbor during her childhood visits, remembering her as a kindly woman if slightly on the nosy side. Excited, she dug around inside the box, scattering the Styrofoam packing peanuts. Her hand closed on something hard, smooth and curved. Getting a firm grip on the unknown object, СКАЧАТЬ