A Different Blue(52)

told him they were all locked, but I wisely remained silent. I suppose that would be twelve

things: I can be wise.

“Bollocks!” He pressed his face up against the car window, hands shielding his eyes on either

side. “Blast!”

“You have a filthy mouth, Mr. Wilson,” I chided, trying not to laugh. “Isn't saying blast

like saying the F word in England?”

“What? No! Bugger, blast and bloody are fairly tame . . . like damn.”

“And bollocks? That sounds downright profane.” It really didn't, but I found I was enjoying

myself. “Soon you'll be saying fiddlesticks! I don't think Principal Beckstead would approve.”

“My keys are in the ignition,” Wilson groaned, ignoring me. He straightened and looked down at

me soberly. “We're walking, Blue, unless you're willing to admit you have certain skills . . .

breaking and entering, perhaps?”

“I don't need skills to break and enter. I just need tools – and I don't have any of them on

me,” I retorted flatly. “We could shove your big violin through your car window, though.”

“Always a smartarse,” Wilson turned and began walking toward the road.

“I live about four miles away in that direction,” I offered, hobbling along after him.

“Oh, good. I live six. That means for at least two miles, I will not have to listen to you

snipe at me,” Wilson grumbled.

I burst out laughing. He really was cranky.





Chapter Ten





We walked along for several minutes with only the clickety clak of my high-heeled boots to break

our silence.

“You'll never make it four miles in those shoes,” Wilson remarked pessimistically.

“I will because I have to,” I retorted calmly.

“A tough girl, eh?”

“Did you have any doubts?”

“None. Although the tears tonight had me wondering. What was that all about?”

“Redemption.” The dark made the truth easy. Wilson stopped walking. I didn't.

“You'll never make it six miles with that violin on your back,” I parrotted, smoothly changing

the subject.

“I will because I have to,” he mocked. “And it's a cello, you ninny.” His long strides had

him walking beside me again in seconds.

“Don't say ninny. You sound bloody ridiculous.”

“All right then. Don't say bloody. Americans sound foolish when they say bloody. The accent is

all wrong.”

Silence.

[page]“What do you mean by redemption?”

I sighed. I knew he would come back to that. Four miles was far too long to evade him, so I

thought for a moment, wondering how I could put it into words without telling him what I needed

redemption for.

“Have you ever prayed?” I ventured.

“Sure.” Wilson nodded like it was no big deal. He probably prayed morning and night.

“Well. I never have. Not until tonight.”

“And?” Wilson prodded.

“And it felt . . . good.”

I felt Wilson's eyes on me in the dark. We walked in syncopation for several breaths.

“Usually redemption implies rescue – being saved. What were you being saved from?” he

inquired, his voice carefully neutral.