Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Mark rapped on the door of the bar at quarter to eleven the next morning. A rail-thin woman with long silky hair unlocked the door and opened it a crack. "We open in fifteen minutes."

"I'd like to speak with the manager, please."

She looked from his feet to his face. "Just a sec." She closed the door, leaving him on the sidewalk.

It was a cool, cloudy day. Mark shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and leaned against the brick wall. The blonde, Amanda, was probably going to think he was crazy, stopping by here again, but he couldn't get the image of that hooded guy and his knife out of his mind. He'd lost sleep to the images of what that little rat might do to her, what he would've done to her if Mark hadn't intervened.

Finally, the door opened again, and an older, gray-haired man stepped out. "What can I do for you?"

Mark nodded toward the door. "May I come in?"

The manager held the door open, and Mark entered. It looked so different that it could've been a different restaurant than the night before. The floor and all the brass fixtures shone in the overhead lights, and the bar and tables gleamed. Menus were stacked on the hostess's station, prepared for the lunch crowd. Nobody would guess the place had overflowed with inebriated college kids less than twelve hours earlier.

"I'm kind of busy." The manager faced him just inside the door. "What do you need?"

"Someone followed one of your waitresses, Amanda, last night, and I?—"

"What do you know about it? Was it you?" The man's voice rose as he gestured toward the phone on the bar. "She was one of my best waitresses."

"She's all right?"

"She quit, that's what she is. You scared her to death. I ought to call the cops."

"Whoa." Mark lifted one hand, palm out. "I wasn't following her. I wanted to tell her?—"

"Get out." The man pointed at the front door. "And don't come back. If I see your face around here again, I'm calling the police."

"I'm just trying to help. I think that guy?—"

"Missy," he called over his shoulder. "Call 911. Tell them we have an intruder."

"Okay, okay." Mark backed out the door. "Just tell her to keep her eyes open. I'm afraid that guy might come looking for her."

"I'll tell her, all right." The manager pushed out behind him. "I'll tell her exactly what you look like." He slammed the door and locked it.

Mark hadn't seen that coming. Did he look like a stalker?

Right. What did stalkers look like? He had to hand it to the manager—he'd stood his ground to protect his former employee.

Unfortunately, Mark didn't think the manager was going to pass along his message. He wandered to the corner where he and the little rat had fought the night before and looked in the direction the waitress had run. He didn't know Providence that well, but he had the general layout committed to memory. From where he was standing in downtown Providence, the Brown campus, where Justin lived, was to the east and across the river. Rhode Island School of Design was also that direction. But the girl had run to the south.

A woman rushed around the corner, the other server from the night before. The piercings on her face looked uglier in the daylight. She slowed when she saw him. "Hey."

"On your way to work?"

"I'm late." Despite that, she stopped a few feet from him.

"Can I ask you something?"

She tilted her head to the side. "Sure, ask me anything."

Whoops. He feared he'd given her the wrong idea, but there was nothing to do about that now. "The other waitress from last night…"

"What about her?" Her flirtatious tone was gone.

"I agreed to meet her near the library on her campus for lunch, but…" He smiled sheepishly. "I'm so embarrassed. I can't remember where she goes to school. I'd hate to blow her off, and I don't have her phone number."

This was a risk, too. Maybe Amanda wasn't a student at all.

The woman shook her head. "The cute guys always go for blondes. Maybe I should dye my hair."

Removing the metal brackets from her face wouldn't hurt, but he didn't say so.

The name of the campus on the other side of town came back to him. "It's Johnson and Wales, isn't it?"

"Got it on the first try." She studied him through narrowed eyes. "I'm surprised Amanda agreed to meet you. If it doesn't work out…" She left the invitation hanging.

"I appreciate your help." He jutted his chin toward the restaurant. "You'd better get in there. And, uh… Just so you know, I'm not a bad guy. I'm trying to do the right thing here."

She gave him a confused look, but he didn't explain, just jogged away.

How long would it be before she heard about the crazy man who'd been looking for Amanda? How long before she realized she'd helped him find her?

Mark headed the way Amanda had gone the night before. Maybe he could find her on her campus. He didn't think it was a very big school. With Justin in class all day, it wasn't as if he had anything else to do. He'd just warn her and give her some suggestions about how to stay safe. Then he'd know he'd done all he could.

Two hours later, Mark was cursing himself for an idiot. Johnson and Wales might not be a huge school, but it was right in the middle of Providence. There were students everywhere, along with businesspeople and families and locals going about their lives. How in the world was he supposed to find one random woman in this crush of humanity?

Cold and hungry and annoyed, he stopped on a busy corner and peered at the passersby. No pretty blondes anywhere in sight.

What had gotten into him?

He guessed the answer, though, or at least part of it. It was the same thing that had infected most Americans in one form or another on the morning of September eleventh, when they'd watched in horror as the towers fell. As a plane hit the Pentagon, one of the most secure buildings on the planet.

All those innocent civilians—some from his own hometown—gone.

Just like that.

When he'd heard about the heroes on Flight 93, Mark had been jealous. Ridiculous and stupid as it was, at least they'd been able to thwart the terrorists. Meanwhile, Mark and his fellow Marines had been stuck on base, watching the news, pacing. Itching to fight. Furious.

Powerless.

After all his training, he'd been powerless.

Maybe that was all this was, a desire to prove he could actually make a difference. He hadn't been able to save any of those innocents on 9/11, but maybe he could save this one woman.

Fine. Not just a woman. A stunning blonde with a joyful laugh. Which had nothing to do with it.

A shop door opened up ahead, and the scent of baked goods and coffee wafted out with a couple of customers.

Food. That was what he needed.

He studied a menu displayed near the front door, then glanced inside. The place was mostly empty, but movement in the corner caught his eye.

A woman was bent over a table where three elementary-aged girls were cutting out rounds of puffy dough. Were they making biscuits?

It was the strangeness of the scene that had Mark watching. Was the woman giving the kids a cooking lesson, right there?

The instructor shifted to a different table, where an older boy and girl were rolling out thin sheets of dough. She had her own bit of dough, which she'd already rolledout. She brushed butter across it, then folded and rolled it paper-thin again. After repeating the process a second time, the students followed her lead with their own dough.

The girl focused on her work, but the boy kept looking at the instructor. If Mark had to guess, he'd say the kid had a crush on his teacher. Though Mark only saw the woman from behind, her apron was snug over her jeans and T-shirt, showing off a shapely figure.

The woman stood and shifted, and…

Well, no wonder the kid had a crush. She was stunning.

It was Amanda.

The door opened again, and a couple of people went inside and to the counter, where they ordered. Amanda paid them no attention.

Might as well wait where it was warm. Not that he was trying to hide, but he didn't want to interrupt.

He ordered a coffee and a muffin and found a seat facing the other direction. He couldn't see her, but he heard her voice as she instructed the kids. She was so patient and kind, laughing at the little ones' antics, never getting annoyed.

"Did I get these too skinny?" one of the little girls asked.

"I think so."

Uh-oh. Mark held his breath, waiting for a scolding. If he'd been the one to mess up, he'd have been scolded or worse by his mother, and the teachers at his private school hadn't exactly been warm.

"That happens, sweetheart," Amanda said. "It's just dough. Let's roll it out and try again."

What? No berating? No humiliation? No yelling?

Not even a firm, Now what did I tell you? Try harder next time.

Not that Mark had never had decent teachers, but Amanda was more than decent. She was sweet and gentle.

The little girls were already giggling again.

When she led them behind the counter, they each carried a small tray of dough rounds. A few minutes later, they emerged with plates of steaming biscuits she must've prepared earlier.

They smelled heavenly.

The little ones quieted, and Mark figured they were eating, though he didn't turn to look.

Amanda was teaching the older kids how to cut and roll their dough. When they passed him with their trays, their sheets had transformed into uncooked croissants. They returned a few minutes later, beaming, with the baked renditions.

Now that he'd found Amanda—and had a little food in him—he was in no hurry and almost sorry when the kids' mom showed up. The kids told her everything they'd learned—the little ones all talking at the same time.

"They're so yummy!"

"Can I eat mine for dinner?"

"I'm gonna take mine to Gram!"

"Tell Dad not to forget them this time."

The mother responded to that. "I'll call him later and remind him."

Mark guessed their father owned—or at least managed—the bakery.

"Come on, kids," the woman said. "Let's go before the lunch rush."

The door opened, and then, suddenly, it was very quiet.

Mark turned to find they'd all walked out, including Amanda.