Oh My Sweet Carolina

Chapter 1

Alan showed up at Miranda's door one Friday evening a few weeks after they had returned from their Paris trip. She answered the door in her yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, her hair clipped up in a messy ponytail.

"Hey," she said brightly. "C'mon in."

He furrowed his brow. "You…have a black-eye."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Oh that! It's just from kick-boxing class."

Alan stepped inside and she placed a quick kiss on his lips. She ran her eyes over his blue sweater and khaki pants.

She stroked the sleeve. "Cashmere. Nice. Blue is a good color for you—brings out your eyes." She looked down at her own clothes. "Seems you've caught me cleaning house, so I'm ultra casual."

He ran his eyes over her while she moved to a sideboard. He liked her ultra casual look. He wondered if he would see it again and felt a little sad at the thought that he might not. Maybe he shouldn't tell her. He looked around the living room; it looked cozy, comfortable—plush red sofas against white walls, large pillows on the window seat. He swallowed hard, setting his jaw. He had to tell her; it wasn't something he could exactly keep secret. She was definitely going to find out when…

"Something to drink? I still haven't stocked your scotch, but I have a good brandy."

"That's fine," he said. He seemed distant, almost sad as he stared at a painting over the fireplace; it was abstract, various shades of blue and black with warped three dimensional cones and cylinders entwined and slithering across the canvas. It was dark, a little disturbing, definitely interesting.

Miranda watched him as she poured the drink. "I wasn't expecting you today. What happened to Denny? I thought you two were doing something."

"We were. I mean, we're finished; we went to watch the Sox play." He moved closer to see the artist's signature in the corner: MLH. He pointed at the painting and said, "You painted this?"

"I did," she said, handing him the drink. "I went through a withdrawn artsy phase after my father…you know."

"It's intriguing," he said, sitting on the couch.

She sat in the floor on a large pillow so she could face him. "So who won the game?"

"Sox."

"Are you feeling okay?" She said studying him. "I thought you would be happier about the win."

He looked at her closely. "That's quite a shiner. Since when did you start take kick-boxing classes?"

"Usually I go on the nights you're with Denny or when you work late."

"How come you never told me?"

She shrugged. "I didn't think it was an issue. Is it?"

"No, but I just seem to learn something new about you every day. You never told me you painted either."

"I don't…anymore."

"It just seems like it would have come up."

She sat her glass on the table and leaned back on her hands. "Typically it takes time to get to know someone, but if you want to cut through all that I could just type up an itemized list of everything I have ever attempted or experimented with and continue to experiment with. Then you will know everything—and be incredibly bored from here on out."

He sniffed a half-hearted laugh.

"You seem despondent or edgy, like there's an actual purpose for your presence here—besides spending time with me. What's on your mind?"

His eyes wandered to the cold, empty fire place and recalled the time they made love in front of the fire, Jim Croce playing in the background. Now there was something else playing, classical. He listened for a moment—Beethoven. A sandalwood scented candle burned on the coffee table.

As if the forces of the universe colluded against him, the music switched to a new song.

"Moonlight Sonata," he said somberly. "How ironic," he said lowly.

She smiled.

"The song you're saving."

"The song I'm saving."

He leaned back and stretched an arm over the back of the couch and said, "Since you now know how I feel…what are the chances that I could…that we could…make use of this song?"

She looked at him suspiciously. "Nice try. But it's going to take longer than a few weeks of saying you love me in order to get to this song."

"That's cruel."

"You don't understand, Alan, every time I hear this song," she said, "It stirs such depths of passion in me. Sometimes, it feels like the song itself is making love to me. So I'm saving this song for the one who makes me feel this way and when I find him, we will make love to it, slowly, softly, tenderly. I've always wanted to make love to this music. He must be this song."

He smiled. "How idealistic of you. Forgive the question: but didn't anyone, even your ex husband ever make you feel this way at some point?"

She smiled crookedly. "Hardly. Though I loved him for a time, we had a very different style of love and sex; it could not really be called passionate."

He wondered now if he would ever be the one.

She turned the volume down and flipped the disc to the next track. "However, I doubt you came to talk to me about my love life with my ex-husband or about Beethoven."

"I did not." He looked down into his brandy glass, feeling her blue wolfish gaze on him, working on him, penetrating him. At last he said, "I needed to talk to you about something."

"It seems serious."

"It is."

He chuckled. "I don't know where to begin; it's so…unusual."

"I've come to appreciate…and expect…the unusual. How about we stop dancing around the subject and just cut to the chase, because you're beginning to worry me."

"Denny has proposed."

"Proposed what?" She said, releasing her hair from its clip, twisting it and clipping it back into place.

"That's the unusual part." He set his jaw and looked down into his glass. "Marriage," he said, setting his gaze on her. "To me."

Her brows furrowed and she looked around confused. A nervous laugh escaped. "You mean to tell me…" She shook her head in disbelief. "That Denny Crane has proposed marriage to you…you…Alan Shore."

"Yes." He clenched his jaws tightly.

"Is there something else you need to tell me because based on my past experiences with you…I would have never believed…I mean…you definitely seem to enjoy being with women…either that or you deserve an Oscar—several of them."

"It's not like that, Miranda."

Her cheeks pinked and her breathing increased. "Then what's it like…exactly…because as you can probably surmise I'm really confused right now. I mean, not long ago you wanted to be exclusive with me—and then there was Paris, which pretty much convinced me of your sincerity…your intentions…and now…this!"

"You're angry."

She scoffed. "What other emotion would you expect? Joy? Elation? Did you expect me to jump up and down and shout congratulations! And then scurry out to buy you a friggin' wedding gift?" She jumped to her feet and paced the room. "I don't know how else to be right now. What's the appropriate emotion for something like this, Alan? I mean, you're so good with emotions and all, maybe you can recommend one for me to be feeling in this moment when my boyfriend, my lover, the man who looooves me tells me he's marrying…another man."

"Let me explain." He stood and approached her.

"Have you accepted him?"

"Let me explain." He placed a hand on her shoulder.

She spoke slowly and emphatically. "Have you accepted him?"

He set his jaw and said quietly, "Yes."

She put her hand to her belly and took in a deep breath. She felt as though all the air had been knocked out of her body. She glared at him, eyes full of betrayal—a look he had become all too familiar with in the eyes of women. Then the storm rose in her eyes and suddenly he felt the sting of her hand across his face. She pushed past him and dashed up the stairs to her bedroom, slamming the door.

He set his jaw again and muttered to himself, "That went as well as I might have expected." He sat there for a few moments, waiting for her to cool off. He wondered if he should leave, but thought the better of it. He wanted her to understand and, if possible, to salvage some sort of relationship with her. He took another sip of his brandy and placed the glass on the table. He stood and moved slowly up the stairs to her bedroom.

He knocked softly on the door. "Miranda, may I come in?"

She didn't answer.

He opened the door. She was sitting on the end of her bed, staring out the window. She looked like a child in her oversized shirt, sloppy ponytail and her feet dangling off the edge of the bed in fuzzy pink socks.

He stood in front of her. "I can't begin to imagine your feelings. You have every right to feel hurt, angry—even betrayed."

She wouldn't look at him.

He sat on the bed next to her. "I want you to know that I have not been leading you on. I didn't expect this either." He chuckled anxiously. "I assure you it was as much a surprise to me as it is to you."

She wiped her eyes and sniffed.

Guilt gnawed at Alan. He continued. "Apparently he's been thinking about this for some time. After the accident, Denny had an epiphany of sorts. He realized that if something happened to him, he would have no one to take care of him. He would have no one to leave his legacy, his estate to, no one to manage his affairs once the mad cow…."

She looked down at her feet.

"He's had an extremely difficult time coming to terms with his Alz…" Alan swallowed. "Mad cow. It's getting worse. He got the results back from his last tests a few weeks ago. When you and I returned from Paris, I took him to the doctor. The progression seems to be slow, but it's still…progressing."

Her anger began to dissipate. She looked up at him. His face was careworn, his eyes sad. "I'm sorry to hear that, Alan. I really am."

He put a hand on her knee. "The reason he wants to get married is so someone he really trusts will have power of attorney over him when the time comes to…" He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. "You know."

She squeezed his hand.

"There are also benefits for his estate…in the end. So you see, I'm doing this because he needs me; because he is my dearest, most cherished friend and I can't turn my back on him when he needs someone the most."

"I understand, I really do. Forgive me for what is going to seem an incredibly selfish moment, but what am I supposed to do with this?"

"I don't know."

"And what happens if I want to get married someday?"

His brows furrowed and his face tensed. "I would not stand in your way."

"And you could let me go so easily?"

"No." He shook his head.

"Are you asking me to give up the option of marriage then?"

"I would never ask that sacrifice of you. And if it meant your happiness, I could never keep you from marrying—if that's what you truly wanted. You see, Miranda, you and so many others have it all wrong."

She looked at him inquisitively.

"Everyone thinks that love is about holding on to people, but it's actually about learning to let them go. And because I really…" He closed his eyes and worked his jaw. "Do…love…" He shook his head and looked up toward the crown molding along the ceiling. "I couldn't possibly hold on to you if letting go meant that you would be happy—though, for myself, it would be nothing less than utterly devastating; it took me so long to open up to another woman after my wife…I know I would never be able to do it again; this is my last shot at it."

Her eyes grew moist. "I don't know what to do with all this, Alan." She put her hands over her eyes to hide the tears that threatened to fall. She quickly wiped her eyes and then rubbed her forehead. "What do you want from me?" She said, defeated.

"I wouldn't dare ask it of you."

She turned and faced him. "Alan, shoot me straight: if you had one wish for you and me, in light of all this, what would it be?"

"I would wish that you and I could find a way to stay together."

She sighed heavily and looked down at the scarlet comforter, tracing the small gold scrolls and vines with her finger.

"Miranda, nothing will change between us; this marriage is simply a legality."

"Yes, a little legality that would happen to make me an adulteress—legally—and you an adulterer. I've told you, I don't like being a mistress."

"But there's more to it than that. Isn't there? To be an adulterer is a matter of the heart and the truth. All three of us would know the truth—all of our hearts are in the right place; therefore, there is no adultery—only an…open marriage situation."

She scoffed. "Spoken like a true lawyer."

"Miranda…"

"Alan," she interrupted. "I need you to go now. I need some space, some time to think."

He nodded and stood. She stood too.

"I'll show myself out," he said, quietly. He placed a lingering kiss on her forehead, looked tenderly into her eyes as he held the sides of her face. He believed it would likely be the last time. He placed a gentle kiss on her lips and quickly left the room.

His footsteps echoed faintly on the staircase like a ghost's. A moment later, she heard the soft click of the front door as it closed. He was gone.

She stood at the bedroom window, looking down on him as he got into the car. Just before he sat down, he looked up at her briefly before getting in and driving away.

She wasn't sure how long she stood in the window, letting her mind roam and mull over her situation. She finally drifted out of her reverie and went to the kitchen. She looked through the cabinets and the refrigerator, but she wasn't hungry. She brought the bottle of brandy to the living room and turned on the television. She curled up on the couch with the brandy, mindlessly flipping through channels, listening to the television drone, though she wasn't really watching or listening. In fact, she simply stared at a corner of the room. In the earliest morning hours, she woke up on the couch, the television blaring an infomercial. She felt empty without Alan by her side. She wondered if he was spending the night with Denny to alleviate his empty feeling or if he felt anything at all.

Miranda stumbled up from the couch and down the hall to her bedroom, passing out across her bed, fully clothed. She woke up the next morning with a full throttle hang over. She took a shower, drank some coffee, got dressed and packed her bags. She grabbed her keys and caught a cab to a car rental station.

She rented an SUV and took off, driving south, thinking, Bob Dylan keeping her company. She stopped only for bathroom and food breaks. She decided when the sun set and then she would find a hotel to stay the night.

She ended up in some small town by the name of Bellefonte in central Pennsylvania. She checked into a local hotel. She called the front desk to ask about food. The closest places were all fast food or pizza delivery. She got back in the car and drove until she found a Waffle House. She sat at the counter, drank coffee, ate waffles and looked out the window, thinking.

When she had finished, she returned to the hotel. She sat in the bed, flipping through television channels. She called the temporary agency and arranged for a temp to take her place for Monday and possibly a few days following. She crawled under the bed covers and stared at the tacky mauve and green palm leaf pattern on the hotel curtains, thinking. She lay awake for most of the night, unsure of when she finally drifted off.

The next morning, she went out into the town of Bellefonte and walked around, looked in store windows; it was an incredibly small town, but beautifully historic. She walked around Talleyrand Park. She sat on a stone wall and looked out over the water.

After lunch at a small café, she jumped back in her SUV and headed further south to Mooresville, North Carolina and to the comforts only a mother could provide.

On Monday morning, Alan was surprised and concerned to find another person girl, a mousy woman with light brown hair, sitting at Miranda's desk. He approached the new girl and said, cautiously, "Hello. I seem to be a little confused. Do you work here now?"

She hunkered a little in her chair and looked up at him with dull green eyes. "No, sir. Only for today, I think. I'm from the temp agency." She looked fearful, like a dog with its tail between its legs

Alan nodded. His brows furrowed with concern. "And did anyone tell you…why?"

"No, sir. I was told to report here at 9, leave at 5 and an hour for lunch at 12. That's all I know."

"What is your name?" he asked softly.

"Brenda."

"Brenda. You seem to be afraid of me. Are you afraid of me, Brenda?"

She hesitated, her eyes darting. She then nodded. "A little."

"You've no doubt already heard stories of a particularly lewd and seedy nature about me."

She nodded again. "I have."

"Yes. Word does travel fast—especially the lascivious sort. I bet you've never wielded a weapon at anyone have you, Brenda?"

She frowned and batted her eyes. "No, sir."

"And I bet you've never even dreamed of having sex in any place other than the bedroom, such as a supply closet."

She blushed. "Oh, no! Never, sir."

He opened his arms in a sweeping gesture. "And there you have it."

"Have what, sir?"

"Let me be the first to put your mind at ease, Brenda. You're entirely safe with me. You can forget all those nasty rumors about me."

"I was told you'd say that."

The wall went up in his eyes and he smiled crookedly. "Then allow me to speak frankly: I've got too much going on right now to even think about seducing you. And if I did make the attempt, it would be half-hearted at best. I'm sure I would lose interest in less than a minute. In fact, just thinking about it…" He paused, thought for a moment and then added. "Yep. I've already lost interest."

She blinked her eyes rapidly, hurt.

"Don't misunderstand, I don't mean to offend you. I'm sure you'd make quite a fulfilling meal for a particular sort of beast…" Alan looked up to see Brad Chase walking by. He indicated him with his hand. "Bradley, for instance, would be just the sort of dull stuff your mild fantasies are probably made of."

Brad stopped and frowned at him. "Problem, Shore?"

Alan smiled broadly. "Not at all. I was just telling Brenda here about our newest partner—G.I. Brad." He turned to Brenda. "Isn't he just a doll? And a brand-spanking-new partner—actually I don't think he really spanks, which totally kills it for me, personally, but you might prefer an non-spanking guy. But his new position means he's oh, so powerful. Can't you just smell the power oozing off of him?" He inhaled deeply then turned to Brad. "Or is that your cologne, Bradley?" Then back to Brenda. "Either way, it's just juicy—I know I'm breathing heavier just thinking about it."

Brenda blushed and looked down at the desk.

"Perv." Brad said, face contorted in disgust.

Alan smiled, laughing inwardly.

Brad's eyes darted around. "Where's Miranda?"

"She's sick…and tired…for the time being, Bradley, so she took a personal day. Brenda, here, is filling in."

Brad lifted his chin in acknowledgment, eyed Alan suspiciously, and walked away.

He turned to Brenda again. "All I'm saying is that I don't care for white bread when I can have an exotic dish of myriad spices and flavors to set my mouth watering and on fire all at once. Therefore, you are safe, dear, mousy, white bread Brenda. Let Brad Chase be your man; this wolf," he motioned toward himself, "likes a fiercer sort of prey."

He walked off, turned the corner and then paused, realizing Brenda was new. He turned the corner and said, "Welcome to Crane, Poole and Schmidt. If you need me, page me in Denny Crane's office."

She nodded.

On his way to Denny's office, Alan pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to Miranda. Voicemail. He listened to the whole thing, just to hear her voice. He didn't leave a message.

Alan entered Denny's office and closed the door behind him.

"She's gone, Denny."

Denny paused his video game. "Who?"

"Miranda. She's hired a temp to replace her for the day, maybe longer. She's not answering her phone. She's gone." Alan unbuttoned his suit jacket and flopped down on the couch, despondent.

"Where did she go?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be here right now," he said, frustrated.

"Okay, geez. Don't have to snap at me."

"I'm not snapping. I'm just…worried."

"Why did she leave?"

"Because I told her about our engagement."

"Oh." Denny wavered. "She'll be back."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I just know," Denny said, tapping his head. "Wii tennis? It'll make you feel better," he said, holding a controller out to him.

"I think I'll pass."

"You're missing out."

"Nevertheless." Alan pressed his fingers to his forehead.

After a couple of scotches with Denny, Alan decided to return to work. He had to place a few phone calls and meet with at least one client before lunch. He also had to prepare the Watson case. He would just bury himself in his work and let the chips fall where they may. He believed the day couldn't get any worse—though he would soon discover he was wrong.

When he approached his office, Brenda stood and said, "Mr. Shore, there's a Ms. Wilson in your office."

He froze. His face pinched up. "Come again?" He touched his tie.

"A Ms. Wilson is waiting for you in your office."

He ducked and whispered, "Tell her I'm not here. I've been called away."

"Too late, sir. I told her you were in Mr. Crane's office."

He rolled his eyes and sighed deeply, shaking his head. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath.

"Are you okay, sir?"

"I'm getting a headache, Brenda."

Alan entered his office and paused in the doorway when he saw Tara, in a short flouncy skirt, leaning against his desk.

"Hello, Alan." She smiled.

He blanked his face and clenched his jaw. "Tara." He moved nonchalantly to his desk and began fiddling with papers. "To what do I owe this visit?"

She turned to sit halfway on the desk. "Nothing special really. Just thought I'd look up an old friend."

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat in his desk chair.

"Have I come at a bad time?"

"You have, in fact."

"You look tired," she said.

"That's hardly your concern now."

"So you're still angry with me?"

"I never was angry with you Tara—only disappointed."

She nodded. "Ah. From my recollection, it's far worse to disappoint you than to anger you."

"If you say so."

There was an awkward silence.

At last he said. "Is there a reason for your visit? Or did you just feel liking drumming up some ghosts?"

"I thought we might go to lunch and perhaps…"

"That's out of the question."

A light flirtatious smile crossed her lips. "Well, seems I shall have to really turn on the charm then." She moved to sit on the corner of the desk next to him, within his reach.

He held her in a cold, steely gaze. "You had better try your persuasive powers on someone else, Tara."

She flinched, a little shocked. "I never knew you to be so stolid when it came to your past women, Alan Shore."

"Then it seems you don't know me."

She leaned closer toward him. "But surely there's still some little spark that could…be…re-ignited." Her face was only inches from his.

Still the hard stare. "I can honestly say, there isn't."

"Oh, really?" She touched his face lightly and leaned in closer.

He stayed her hand and removed it from his face.

She leaned back, irritated. "Is it another woman?"

"It is."

"Surely it's not…" She pointed a thumb over her shoulder to indicate Brenda.

"No." Then he added impatiently, "Why are you here?"

"I've missed you, Alan. I just thought…" She shrugged. "I never really stopped thinking about you, loving you, and so I thought maybe you felt the same way."

"I suppose that's your misfortune. But you and I, we had our chance. You wanted what I could not give. You left."

"I had to Alan. After I broke it off between us, I couldn't hang around here. It was too awkward and I was afraid…"

"Afraid of what?"

"That we would never really be able to break it off. That we would fall into one of those on again and off again relationships. I didn't want that."

"You mean the very thing you're here trying to reclaim."

"This is different."

"How?"

"I've had some distance, some time to think about it. I've missed you…terribly, Alan. And I thought maybe…"

"Pardon me, Tara." Alan reached in his pocket and took out his cell phone. "Alan Shore."

The female voice on the other end of the line had a distinct southern drawl.

"Alan Shore?" she said.

"Yes."

"The Alan Shore?"

"The one and only."

"The same Alan Shore who sent my daughter home to North Carolina, licking her wounds?"

His breath halted. "Mrs. Houston?"

"The one and only."

He glanced at Tara who remained seated on the edge of his desk. Her arms crossed.

"I'm sorry, but may I ask you to hold for a moment?" He put his hand over the phone and said, "Tara, if you will excuse me, please."

She smiled sarcastically. "I don't see why I should."

He put the phone down and grabbed her by the arm, marched her to his office door, and guided her through it. He said, "Whether or not you decide to wait until my call is finished is entirely your choice." Her mouth fell open in pure shock as he gently shut the door in her face.

He returned to the phone. "I apologize. May I ask how you got this number?"

"I'm on Miranda's cell phone. I just started pushing buttons, if you must know the truth. And I was just lucky enough to get you." She laughed.

He smiled. "Is she okay?"

"She is. You're still a lawyer right?"

"I am."

"Are you any good?"

He smiled. "I'm one of the best. May I ask to what these questions tend?"

"Because we need you down here in North Carolina, if you don't mind."

"In a personal or professional capacity?"

"Well, I suppose it's a little of both. We've run into a smidgen of trouble and there's not a lawyer within a hundred miles that's going to come near us. And I figure you, as my daughter's lover, would have an especial vested interest in helping us."

He chuckled anxiously. He suddenly felt like a high school boy picking up a girl for a first date. "Mrs. Houston…"

"You can call me T. It's short for Theresa, but everybody calls me T."

He faltered. "T" He chuckled again. "Your daughter and I are not…"

"Alan, if I may call you that…"

"You may."

"Alan, I've wandered this old world a lot of years. My daughter just turned 32 this past November and, by the sound of your voice, you seem to be a full grown man, though you may not always act like it, so let's not sugar coat the truth. There's just no sense in pretending that your relationship is anything less than sexual, even intimate."

He laughed. He liked her already. "Very well. In that case how can I help?"

"Miranda's in jail."

His breath caught again. "I'll be right there. May I get your address and a telephone number to your home?"

She gave him the information. "Thank you, Alan."

"Goodbye T. I'll be there as soon as humanly possible." He snapped his phone shut and packed up a few files in his brief case. He then paged Brenda.

"Yes, Mr. Shore?"

"I'm going out of town. Cancel and reschedule all my appointments for the next three days. I will keep you posted for further instructions. I will contact your agency to keep you on for as long as I need you. You will be my contact person here. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"If Shirley or any of the other partners ask where I'm going, tell them I have a case in North Carolina—that's all anyone needs to know right now."

"Yes, sir."

He gathered up his things and checked his watch. "If you need me for anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to call my cell. I need your cell phone number. I need to be able to talk to you at any time."

"Yes, sir." She jotted the number down on a slip of her notebook paper and handed it to him. He shoved it in his suit jacket pocket.

He sped past her toward Denny's office.

"Denny."

Denny was sitting at his desk, with headphones on and his eyes closed.

"Denny!" Alan said louder.

Denny opened his eyes sleepily. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Meditating. Supposed to be good for the mad cow."

"I've got to go out of town."

"Where to?"

"Mooresville, North Carolina."

"North Carolina? What do you want to go there for?"

"Miranda's in jail."

"What for?"

"I don't know yet."

"Want me to go with you?"

"Not this time. I'll probably be gone for a few days, so I'll need someone to cover my rosy cheeks here—especially with Shirley and Carl."

"Will do." He saluted.

Alan saluted back and, turning ran right into Tara.

She pursed her lips. "You're not going to get away so easily Alan."

"Tara," Alan said impatiently, "I really don't have time for this."

"Tammy!" Denny said, rising from his seat, leering at her. He walked around his desk toward them.

"It's Tara," she said.

He ran his eyes over her body and then took her hand in his. He shrugged. "Whatever." He kissed her hand. "I've really missed you. How long has it been?"

She smiled tightly and pulled her hand from his grip.

She looked back at Alan, hand on her hip. "I'm rather curious to know your current flavor of the month?"

"Actually, it's been the same flavor for the past six months."

She lifted her brows, surprised. "I'm astonished that you haven't grown tired of that same old flavor yet."

"I haven't."

"Sounds serious."

"It is."

"You must love her."

He struggled to suppress his anger. "You know what Tara? You gave up the right to this information a long time ago."

"I just want to know if there's a chance."

"Fine. Would you ever wear a pair of red cowboy boots with an elegant evening gown?"

"What?" She laughed, rolling her eyes. "Never. What a ridiculous question."

"Exactly. That's your answer. I have to go. My lover awaits and I make it a point to never keep her waiting." He started to walk away.

She cocked an eyebrow petulantly and spun. She said to his back. "You're a real bastard, Alan."

He stopped, turned and walked back to her. He stood very close to her, putting a hand on her shoulder and looking earnestly into her face. "Yes, I know. And I recall there was once a time when you rather adored that quality in me…that is, when it served your purposes. But as it stands right now, it's gladly serving another's purpose." He dropped his hand. "Goodbye, Tara." He gave her a hard, pointed look then turned and walked away.

He rushed home to pack his travel bag and was soon on his way to the airport. As he drove, he called Brenda to have her arrange the first flight out of Boston to Mooresville.