CHAPTER 1
Ellie Mae slumped back down onto the sofa. She needed to do something. The house looked like a tornado went through it, and every day it grew worse, if that was possible, but she didn't feel like it. In all actuality, she hadn't done much of anything the last few days. Joshua had snacks whenever he got hungry and ate whatever he wanted, typically leaving empty wrappers or dirty dished throughout the house. She ate occasionally if she happened to be shuffling through the kitchen. Her reason for this sudden sluggish, depressive state was still had not happened all too long ago. About seven weeks ago her husband had been murdered. Cursory investigations said suicide, but she couldn't believe it. In her desperation, she went to see a man she knew would do anything he could to help, Stringfellow Hawke. At first he mentioned his MIA brother Saint John, and she was worried that she'd made a mistake in asking him. Sure, she and Saint John had been close, really close, but she couldn't honestly hold out the devout hope he was still alive after all these years; he would have been in a Vietcong prison for almost twenty years! She soon found however while he had been over there a long time, not quite that long. After spending half his life searching, String finally found his brother; she was happy for him, although a little ashamed that she had given up hope on the guy of her dreams. Things between her and Saint John would never be the same again though, they couldn't be. String was dead and it was all her fault. He was killed by the same one that had killed Arthur. Saint John could never forgive her; he owned his life to his brother, but he wouldn't even be able to start repaying him because String was dead. What could you do to help a dead person?
Ellie thought about flipping through the TV channels, but decided against it. There probably wasn't anything to lift her mood. She trudged into the kitchen and pulled a half eaten carton of ice cream out of the freezer and a spoon from the drawer. The doorbell rang just as she plopped back down on the sofa. She ignored it; whoever it was would come back if it was important. Joshua ran to the door.
"Josh wait," she called after him, but he didn't even hesitate at flinging the door open to the stranger.
Saint John came face to face with a blonde, blue eyed, six year old boy who stared wide eyed back up at him. Does Ellie Mae live here?" he asked tentatively, hoping he had gotten the right house.
The little boy ran off into the back parts of the house. Did that mean yes or no? Saint John wondered. His question was quickly answered when she came to the door.
"Saint John," she said uncomfortably. "I, uh…" What was she supposed to say? "Look, I'm really sorry about your brother."
Saint John spoke to her for the first time since he had shown up, "I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I tried to call, but didn't get any answer."
"I'm fine." Tears started to roll down her cheeks. "Ok, I'm not fine," she sobbed, "but how can I be? It's all my fault. I shouldn't have even brought him into this mess." She continued bawling, "Arthur was bad enough, does it really matter if he killed himself or someone else did? He's just as dead, and now….and now String…."
Saint John wrapped comporting arms around her. "Ellie, it's alright," he soothed.
"It's not alright; it's all my fault!" she wailed.
Saint John continued talking to her in soothing tones, but to no avail.
His warmth, it was comforting, he was comforting, but it wouldn't work, and she knew it which made her cry all the more. "I'm sorry. I just wish there was something I could do," she sniffed, rigidly pulling away from what her heart wanted most-somebody to love, to love her, not just anyone- Saint John.
He settled onto the corner of the sofa and pulled her gently to relax against him. There wasn't any use in trying to calm her; it wouldn't work, so he just sat there with her in his arms, offering the silent comfort and compassion. Eventually, all her energy was spent and she fell asleep.
Once convinced she was truly asleep, Saint John carefully scooted off the sofa and carried her to her bedroom. After she was settled in her own bed, he made his way into the kitchen and began looking for something to fix to eat. Finally he settled on grilled cheese and tomato soup. Still trying to be quiet so as not to wake Ellie Mae, he hunted for a clean pot. None was to be found. His apartment was by no means clean, but this….this was disastrous. In the living room alone he found a carton of melting ice cream, a bag of stale potato chips, and empty dinner plate, and half of an uneaten pizza. While she was asleep he might as well pick up a little; it sure couldn't hurt.
As he picked up and threw the trash away, he realized most of this had been in the last few weeks. Hardly any dust was around, and all the carpets were freshly vacuumed except for the area next to the couch and the coffee table. "At least she doesn't normally live like this," he said consoling himself."
An hour later, Ellie opened two tired brown eyes. A questioning glance confirmed it; she was in her room. But how? She pulled on her robe and shuffled down the hallway. Someone was in her kitchen, but who? Saint John would have no reason for sticking around. She doubted, however, that they, whoever it was, weren't any threat since he was cooking in her kitchen. It was Saint John. She seated herself at the little dining table in the adjacent room.
"Smells good," she commented. Probably anything warm would though; she hadn't had a proper meal in over a week now.
"Hope it tastes as good as it smells then," he said as he carried in a bowl and matching saucer. "What do you want to drink?"
She looked longingly at the creamy tomato soup and the steamy grilled cheese sandwich. "Anything is good."
He poured her a tall glass of milk.
"Thanks," she said gratefully between mouthfuls. "For the food and the cleaning. I'm grateful, but you didn't have to do anything."
"No problem," he said, shrugging off the thank you. It was still only one o'clock. "If you want, I fly you to dinner. That is, if you don't mind vegetarian."
She gave him a puzzled look. "How long have you been vegetarian? And why fly?" Somehow Saint John Hawke just didn't look like the vegetarian type, and she'd think he got enough flying during the day, not to mention the fact most restaurants didn't have enough room for landing many helicopters.
"I'm not, but I have a feeling that's what String will want, and if you don't fly you have to get there by horseback or walking and that's a tough way to get to dinner, not to mention time consuming."
'String would want,' she mentally corrected, 'if he were alive.' It would do her good to get out of the house for a while though. "Yeah, I'd like to go. What time should I be ready?"
"I'll pick you up at six," Saint John offered.
"Ok. I'll be ready." And anxiously awaiting you.