Drop 'til You Shop

Megan’s pink iPhone tolled church bells at 7:30 am, Saturday morning.

“Hi, Trish,” Megan answered, sitting up in bed, pleased that she’d clairvoyantly known the caller’s identity, even before seeing the name and number on the display.

“Yes, we saw it last Sunday,” Megan said, glancing at her dozing husband. “Not a bad story, but you wouldn’t believe the writer’s follow-up technique! There’s definitely an inside story,” she added. “I’d rather tell you when I see you. You want to get together?”

“I’d love to go shopping today,” Megan said. “I thought you worked Saturday mornings. “Really? A fire at the cafe? Are you all right? Well, I mean, I know you’re all right. Oh. Oh, that poor boy.”

She listened again. “Dillburys is having a sale on boots this weekend. We can take care of that at least.”

Megan frowned. There was something in Trish’s voice . . . something was wrong. Megan was a natural-born worrier, and years of practice had made her extremely good at it, even without her newfound sensitivities.

A fire was nothing to either woman -- even a fire that burned a pair of favorite boots off Trish’s invulnerable feet. It had to be something else. Megan herself, mature, experienced and 40, had plenty of problems handling powers that verged on goddess-like. What must it be like for Trish, a 22-year-old single waitress?

She silently scolded herself for not keeping in closer contact with Trish after they’d finished their volunteer deputy training.

“I can pick you up in about 20 minutes.”

Megan turned her attention to her sleeping mate. He lay on his back, mouth open, snoring.

Megan nudged him. “Hey Sleeping Beauty,” she said, “come back to life for a minute.”

He opened his eyes and swallowed. “Good morning,” he said, sleepily. “Honey, I been rode hard and put up wet.”

Megan smiled at his description of the previous evening. She had put her 6-2, 180-pound weightlifter husband through paces that took him to the edge of his strength and manhood — and beyond.

She had toyed with him well beyond the time she knew she should quit. It was payback, in a way, she thought sweetly. Payback for yesterday’s “Anne Straits incident.”

Harris had told her that he had learned his lesson — and to be fair it wasn't entirely his fault — MOSTLY, but not entirely. Megan felt he owed her just the same. After all, what was the use in practically being a goddess if you couldn't do as you pleased once in awhile, at least with your own husband? Small but mighty, Megan did as she pleased with him — repeatedly.

Megan felt something touch her beneath the covers. At least part of John was wide-awake, and evidently a lot more resilient than the rest of him.

“Oh no,” she said, and quickly floated out from under the covers. Nude, she hovered just above him, and kissed him gently. “Eecch, morning-breath,” she said. He tried to pull her to him, but his small, floating wife was far beyond his strength. He succeeded only in pulling himself up to her, for a moment. Then he dropped back to the bed.

“I’m going shopping with Trish this morning,” Megan told him. “I’ve got to meet her in just a few minutes. I’m taking the truck.”

“God, Megan,” said the now awake and aroused Harris, “Can’t it wait? It’s just shopping.”

“No it can’t,” she said touching his nose with a finger. “I think there's something wrong she needs to talk about.”

“Did she say there's something wrong?”

“No —“

“What makes you think something’s wrong, then?”

“Just that sometimes my worries are well-founded,” she said. “Know what I mean?” Grunting, he turned over and put a pillow on top of his head. “When will you be back," he asked, his voice muffled.

“After lunch. And while I’m gone, I’d like you to vacuum. That’s all you have to do today.”

“Ok, Miss Bossy,” Harris muttered from beneath the pillow.

“What was that, Mr. Harris?”

“Nothing, I said ok!”

In moments, Megan had showered. She dried her hair and body instantly by telekinetically accelerating the air molecules into a gentle heat around her.

She dressed in skin-tight black leggings and flat-soled, mid-calf leather boots, and pulled a short-sleeved pale yellow silk blouse over her bra, tucking it into a bright red wool pull-on skirt.

Though impervious to weather, Megan took a lightweight blue nylon jacket from the closet. The sun shone, but the mercury hovered in the low 30s. No sense drawing attention to herself while walking around downtown in the cold air.

She blew a kiss to her snoring husband, and a moment later headed his black 4-wheel drive pickup truck toward north Lawrencedale.

Megan parked in front of Trish’s small white rental house. She noticed, with a feeling of satisfaction, that Kody Fulmer’s motorcycle was gone. Megan had met Fulmer shortly after she and Trish had “broken through,” as Dr. Tzin-Zin put it, on her only other visit to the young waitress’s house.

Fulmer, Trish’s live-in boyfriend, was a long-haired bearded biker, 6-4 and upwards of 240 pounds. He seemed sullen and uncommunicative. Megan disliked him at once. She suspected he might have been abusive in the pre-breakthrough days. She didn’t know for sure, though, since she hadn't known Trish until Dr. Tzin-Zin brought them together. Not that it mattered. Fulmer could slap Trish all day now, and all he would have to show for it would be hurt hands and one bored waitress. If he was lucky.

No sooner had Megan parked, than Trish’s front door opened and the waitress scampered to the truck and climbed in the passenger seat.

“Nice outfit,” Megan said to the blue-eyed, mildly freckled woman next to her.

“Oh, this?” Trish smiled. She crossed her legs. A low-cut black leotard top was tucked into a short denim skirt with a ruffled hem, rounded out by black and white cowboy boots and an oversized black leather biker's jacket.

“Thanks for coming, Megs,” Trish said. “I sure could use a shoulder about now and yours is the only one around here strong enough!”

Trish leaned over to check her pale lipstick and her straight, shoulder-length auburn hair in the rear-view mirror. She straightened up as Megan pulled the truck away from the curb and headed for downtown.

“So you've been a busy bee lately,” Megan said.

“Oh, you mean the fire? It wasn't too bad, except for my good boots. I don't even know why I was wearing them. I usually don't wear them to work. And poor Jimmy, our new cook. He got shocked.”

“Really? Is he all right? What happened?”

“The fire marshal said a mouse must’ve chewed through some electrical wires. Anyway, poor Jimmy, he’s only been there a week, he was in the kitchen, when the whole back wall went up in flames.

“So he yelled for help and tried to put out the fire with the sprayer from the deep sink. Only it’s an electrical fire, so the electricity traveled up the water and electrocuted him!”

“Oh my God, that’s horrible!” said Megan. “How’d they put out the fire?”

“I was back there by then, and half the kitchen was on fire. I didn’t know if I could do it or not, but I tried to put it out with the foam fire extinguisher. It was so hot my boots and clothes were burning.

“Anyway, I got it down for a second, but then it popped right back up, even stronger than before. The extinguisher was almost empty. Mack yelled at me to turn off the electricity, but the fuse box was right in the middle of the worst part of the fire!”

“But fire can't hurt us,” said Megan. “Can it?”

“No. But I was still scared. I mean it’s one thing to sign autographs in the cafe, but it’s something else when you're supposed to walk into a wall of fire that’s getting worse every second. Remember when Dr. Tzin-Zin told us to step off the roof of the research center that night? I mean, we knew we could fly, and even if we couldn’t, the fall wouldn't hurt us, but still ...”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” Megan replied. She thought about how she’d let Trisha take that first step into thin air. Megan wondered if she would be brave enough to walk into a savage fire. “Scared or not, I bet you went in anyway,” she said.

“Well, I didn’t have any choice, so I held my breath and waded in.”

“How was it?”

“Oh my God, it was scary as hell at first, but then you know what? It wasn't bad. And it was pretty, in a way, all bright and golden. I actually felt stronger. Sort of like when you're getting a tan; you know how good the sun feels on your skin?”

“Mmmm.”

“So I shut off the electricity, and after that it was easy to put out the fire. I just smothered it out with my hands.”

“Trish, you’re a bona fide heroine, now, you know that? A super heroine.”

“Except I couldn't help poor Jimmy. He’s such a sweet kid. I went to the hospital last night, but he couldn't have any visitors. The doctor said he’ll be all right, but he was resting. I want to get him a present while we’re out.”

They approached downtown slowly.

“Kind of heavy traffic for Saturday,” Megan noted. “I wonder if something’s going on.”

Trish psychically scanned the scene before them.

“I think it’s the sale,” Trish reported. “There’s a crowd gathering around Dillbury’s and it’s backing the traffic up.”

“I noticed Kody’s motorcycle was gone this morning,” Megan remarked. The traffic light had turned green, but the traffic didn’t move.

Trish looked out the passenger-side window. She didn’t reply.

Megan thought Trish might not have heard her — a ridiculous idea, Megan realized, considering Trish could probably have gotten the question even if Megan hadn’t spoken it aloud.

“He left me.” Megan detected a quaver in the waitress’s voice.

Why, Megan thought sarcastically, because he couldn't beat you anymore?

“Trish, was it a, you know, a male-ego thing?”

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know,” Trish said. “All I know is that it was all my fault.”

“Oh, honey, I doubt that,” Megan said.

“That’s awful sweet, Megs, but let me tell you what happened, and see if you still think so. It was just a couple nights ago. Kody wanted to take me to the Cockfight, you know that biker bar on the other side of the river?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that pesthole,” Megan replied. “John always wants to go there and shoot pool, but I won't let him.”

“I don’t blame you,” Trish said. “That place has always scared me, it’s so rough. Kody loves it though. He says now that I’m ‘wonder waitress’ -- he calls me ‘wonder waitress’ —”

What a big stupid male asshole, thought Megan. Trish should thank her lucky stars he’s gone.

“— I don't have to be scared anymore. I tried to tell him I still didn’t like the place. The women’s restroom is filthy, and it’s too smoky, and just a big mess. He insisted, though, so we go outside to get on his Harley. He hands me my helmet, and I just look at him for a second. I mean, what do I need a helmet for? When he figures out why I’m not putting the helmet on, he gets real mad and grabs the helmet and throws it down cussing and yells at me to get on the bike.”

“Unbelievable,” Megan said, unable to help herself. “Didn’t he realize you could tie his precious bike around his neck? What the hell right does he have to act like that with you?”

There was a strained silence. The traffic had begun to flow, and they were now on the shopping district's main street, creeping toward Dillbury’s.

“I’m sorry, Trish,” Megan said after a few quiet moments. “I don’t have any right to pop off. I should just listen.”

“That’s all right,” Trish replied. “You did it because you’re a good friend. He makes me really mad, too sometimes. But I should’ve put the helmet on. It hurt his feelings, and I knew it would as soon as he handed it to me.”

“So that's why he left?” asked Megan. "Because of the helmet?”

“No. That just got him in a bad mood to start with. So we get to the place and sit at a table. Then these four big guys come over and start hassling us for no reason. Kody stands up like he’s going to fight them, and everyone in the place stops what they’re doing and watches -- what would you have done, Megs?” Trish asked helplessly.

“Kick butt and take names and in that order, too.”

“Me too,” Trish said. “That’s what I did. I tried to be careful, but I didn’t expect them to be so weak. I mean it was like fighting my stuffed animals or little kids or something.”

“How bad did you hurt them?”

“There were a couple of broken arms and legs, and some cracked ribs. One guy, the really fat one, had a concussion from hitting his head on a beam on the ceiling. It only lasted a second or two. I moved through them pretty fast. I was mad because I didn’t want anyone hurting my man.”

“I don't blame you,” said Megan. Though I might have made an exception for that particular man, she thought.

“I felt sick when I was done,” Trish continued. “I mean they were all a lot bigger than me, but they were helpless. I wanted to throw up.”

“I can understand that. But I still don’t think you did anything wrong. It’s Kody’s own fault if his stupid male ego can't handle you protecting him.”

“But I wasn't protecting him,” she said, brokenly. “See, it was just a gag. Everyone was in on it. Those four guys were his buddies! They were just pretending to pick on him! And then they were going to stage a fake fight and let Kody beat them all up, like he was protecting me! And then we were going to have a party and drink beer all night.” Trish broke into tears.

Oh boy, Megan thought. What “special ability” can I use to fix this?

“So,” Trish continued, trying and failing to get control of herself, “he swore at me and stomped out and rode away and I haven’t seen him since. No one did anything. I had to call the ambulance. They were all laying around, moaning. It was horrible!” The tears continued, and sobs wracked the young woman. Traffic stopped again.

Megan, feeling useless and near tears herself, cast about desperately for some comforting thing to say that wouldn't sound fatuous or improbable.

She recalled the Anne Straits incident, briefly. Does it seem to you, Trish, Megan didn't say, that ambulances are playing a bigger role in our lives lately?

“God, I just feel like a bull in a china shop sometimes,” Trish cried.

“Trish, remember what Dr. Tzin-Zin told us? She said even though we were invulnerable we'd still be fragile. Remember that? And she said that our true strength was what we’d always had, and that’s what we would have to count on more than our powers. Remember?”

Trish's wrenching sobs faded as she focused on Megan’s words.

“I remember,” Trish said sniffling. “She said we’d, um, make some lulus, but keep going anyway ...” The tear-stained young woman opened the glove compartment. “Darn it, why do guys never have tissues in their glove compartments?” she cried out in frustration.

Megan laughed, and then to her complete surprise and dismay, found herself crying. “Oh, Trish, I’m so sorry about it all. It’ll get better, I know it will.”

Megan’s tears triggered new waterworks in Trish. She moved over and hugged Megan.

They held each other and cried. “You are such a good friend, Megs,” Trish managed to choke out.

“Trish, I'm so glad you called,” Megan sobbed. “I — I’m having a great time!”

The two women spluttered into laughter, releasing each other. Unable to catch her breath, Megan pointed at her purse.

“Kleenex -- in -- purse,” she gasped out between paroxysms.

Her laughter subsiding, Trish fished out a few crumpled white balls with lipstick marks from Megan's black leather purse. “Megs, these are from 1959!”

They went into renewed fits. This time their laughter was accompanied by honking car horns. The vehicles in front of them were moving.

Taking deep breaths to get herself under control, Megan looked in her side mirror. A young man in a black BMW leaning out his driver’s-side window, shouted and motioned at her to go. Megan pondered several destructive responses, including the simultaneous shattering of all the BMW’s windows, or blowing out all four of its tires, but decided on ‘none of the above.’

She put the truck in gear and they continued slowly down Main Street.

“Trish, it might be for the best that he’s gone.” Megan couldn’t bring herself to speak Kody’s name.

“Well, Kody was no Francois Tremayne,” Trish said. “But I did like those rides on his motorcycle.”

“Who’s Francois Tremayne?” Megan asked. She emphasized the first name — Fran-Swah.

Trish laughed and sniffled.

“He’s a character I made up when I was a little girl. He rode a big white horse and had a dashing French accent. I dreamed he’d ride in and carry me away to meet the crowned heads of Europe. I don’t think I even knew what the ‘crowned heads of Europe’ were. I guess heard it in a movie somewhere. Dreaming about Francois Tremayne help me get through some pretty rough times when my Daddy was mean to my Mama.

“Francois Tremayne was big and strong and kind and gentle… and very handsome.”

“He didn’t have an older brother, did he?”

Trish laughed. “Oh, Francois,” she said wistfully. “I guess you weren’t real after all.” Megan patted Trish on her thigh. “Honey, living well is the best revenge,” she said. “Let’s just shop till we drop, then have a great lunch. Somebody can wait on you for a change. We’ll have a nice glass of wine.”

“If we ever get there,” Trish said, sniffling. They had stopped again. She wiped her eyes and looked at Megan. “That crowd in front of Dillbury’s is getting really big. And there’s some police cars. I don't think it’s the sale.”

Megan pulled the truck out of traffic and into curbside parking. Still a mile out from the shopping district, there were plenty of spaces. “Maybe we’d better take a quick look,” she said. In an instant, Megan and Trish had left the truck and traversed the mile-plus to Dillbury’s. They stepped up to the knot of police officers at the heart of the crowd.

The flat tone both women had on their smart phones as official volunteer deputies sounded.

Lt. Tom Wilkins, in his Navy blue policeman’s uniform, turned around and saw them. “Holy mackerel, are you fast or what?” he said in surprise. “We’re just now calling you!”

He saw red eyes. “Are you two all right?” The women nodded. “What's up?” asked Megan.

The lieutenant pointed to the 5th floor of Dillbury's. “That's what's up.”

Megan and Trish looked up, with the rest of the crowd, and saw a man on a narrow ledge, 10 feet away from the nearest window.

“Wants to kill himself by jumping,” Wilkins said in disgust. “Can’t get him down. We’ve tried everything.” He looked at them. “I’m really sorry to bother you on a nice Saturday morning but ... he’s just beyond us. If he jumps ... well, among other things, you can’t imagine the paperwork.”

“I can do it,” Trish said. “I’ll get him right down.”

She tensed for flight, but Megan took her arm. “Wait, Trish. What’s his name, Lieutenant?”

“Won’t tell us. Won't tell us why he wants to jump. Just wants us to go away so he can kill himself in peace. Of course, if he really wanted to kill himself, he would’ve stayed home and done it in private.”

“Rule book won't let us leave, though,” Megan mused, recalling the police training she and Trish received shortly after the breakthrough. “Can't abandon a potential suicide no matter what. Though if we did, he’d probably just climb back in and go home.”

“Yep,” the lieutenant agreed. “Likes the attention. Can’t risk it, though. And if you were just to fetch him down, I'm sure he'd be right back up here tomorrow.”

“I know what to do,” Trish said. “Play along with me on this, okay, Megs?”

“Sure,” said Megan. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do it?”

“I want to make someone see it my way for a change,” she answered. “Even with all my powers, I let Kody walk all over me. But that’s over now. Meet the new Trish!”

“What exactly do you pro—” Wilkins began, but Megan placed her hand on his chest, stopping him.

“Lieutenant,” she explained gently, “whatever happens, that man is no longer able to jump to his death. We’re here, and we’re fast and strong enough to catch him, no matter what he tries. You called us — now let us take care of it for you.”

The policeman nodded. Megan turned to Trish.

“Trish, what exactly DO you propose?”

Trish winked at her friend. “Watch this,” she said, and launched.

The crowd, perhaps 500 or more, collectively gasped as the young woman soared to the 5th floor to face the suicide. She stood on air, a foot from him.

“Hi, honey, I’m Trish. What's your name?” Trish asked.

“I know you can take me down,” said the jumper, a hefty, sandy-haired man a little older than Trish. “If you do, I’ll be right back here again. I'm going to kill myself. You can't stop me. Understand?”

Trish smiled sweetly, her blue eyes guileless. “I understand, honey. Actually, that’s just what I wanted to hear. At least we know where we stand.” She gave him a cool look. “Know what I mean?”

He looked at the feet of the pretty young woman. She stood on five stories of empty air. Trish snatched him off the ledge, and held him gently against her. The man was bulky, and nearly 6 feet tall. He dwarfed the small woman, holding him in mid-air, who was barely able to get her arms around him without squishing him like a giant grape. Her bare thighs and knees pressed against his big, denim-covered legs.

Trish left his hands free, and he fought with all his strength against her. He punched, scratched and bit, and tried ramming her with elbows. His struggles against her, no stronger than an infant's, mildly amused her. She held him effortlessly, hovering at the 5th floor, until he realized resistance was pointless.

“You can't hurt me, honey,” she said, as if explaining to a child. Still holding him, she swiftly dropped to within a few feet of the pavement, where Megan and the police waited.

“Now,” the hovering Trish said, “in front of all these nice people, if I set you down gently, will you promise to be a good boy and run along home?”

“Hell, no!” he swore. “Who asked you to butt in, anyway?”

“I did,” said Wilkins. “Lawrencedale Police Department.”

“You tell her to put me back where I was, or I’ll see to it you have one mother of a mess on your hands!”

“Megs, would you do me a favor and use your fingernail to scratch me a circle in the sidewalk?” Trish asked. “Make it about 10 feet around.”

The immediate crowd quieted, and even the would-be jumper watched in fascination as Megan lifted off the ground and inverted herself. With one semi-long pink fingernail, she sliced a circle into the concrete as Trish had requested. She did a mid-air back-flip on to her feet.

“What’s the circle for, Trish?” Megan asked.

“Our friend here wants to kill himself, is that right?” Trish asked.

“That’s right, so put me back, damn it!”

“I’m going to help him,” the cowboy-booted waitress continued. “I’m going to drop him from about 10,000 feet and he’s going to land – splat – in the middle of that circle. Better keep the crowd back,” she told Wilkins. “It could be messy.”

“You're crazy!” the man shouted in disbelief. “Tell her that’d be murder!” he shouted again at Wilkins.

Wilkins took a deep breath. “Son, it would be murder,” he said looking up at Trish and her angry but helpless human cargo. “Then again, I doubt there’s a jail in the world that could hold the young lady, even if we could catch her. So my advice to you is to take this golden opportunity to bail out of this fiasco right now.”

“The hell with y—“

Before he could finish the word, Trish rocketed them thousands of feet above the city.

Lawrencedale and the surrounding area stretched out beneath them, a tiny relief map.

She dropped him. He screamed.

Trish dove beside him as he fell. The ruffled hem of her denim skirt fluttered against her bare thighs.

“Well, you got your wish honey! You’re falling to your death,” Trish shouted over the whistling air stream. “You’ve got a minute or two before you hit, though. Why don’t you tell me your name?”

Plummeting to doom like a bomb, the young man suddenly found his voice. “Edward Strumpert,” he shouted. “Are you really going to let me hit?”

“I thought you wanted to die!”

“I’m not sure now!”

“Why’d you want to kill yourself?”

The suicide-wannabe gagged on his words as he headed for the ground at a frightening velocity. Individuals in the crowd, then individual faces in the crowd rushed toward him. The circle in the concrete grew big. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, and a sound like shrieking steam escaped him.

Trish caught him at the last moment and tossed him back into the stratosphere. He hurtled helplessly up. Trish laughed happily, beside him again. She slowed in the upward trajectory as he slowed.

“I just love flying, don’t you?”

Strumpert clawed futilely at the air as upward momentum changed to downward. “I give up!” he screamed. “Save me! Save me!”

“But you haven’t told me why you wanted to kill yourself!”

“Okay! I left my girlfriend a month ago, and since then my life has turned to shit!”

“Really?” The similarity of Strumpert’s admission to recent events in her own life surprised her for a moment. “Did you want to go back with her?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Did you call her or write her?”

“No! I was – ah – ah –”

The ground rushed up again, again at terrifying speed.

“Afraid, honey? Were you afraid she wouldn't take you back?”

“Yes! Catch me! Catch me!”

Trish reached out with one slim arm, entwined a long-nailed finger in his coat collar, slowed and stopped. She hovered, 1,000 feet up. Strumpert dangled from her outstretched finger. He clamped his large, meaty hands onto her small forearm, hanging on with panicky strength. He shook convulsively, sobbing harder than Trish had, earlier. He tried frantically, unsuccessfully to swing his legs to catch hold of Trish’s slim, black leotard-clad waist.

“It’s a funny coincidence,” she said mildly to the unmanned man squirming on the end of her finger. “My boyfriend just dropped me. It hurts really bad, and I’m very upset. Unfortunately, you’re the only one around for me to take it out on. Too bad, now that you’ve decided you want to live and go back to your girlfriend. But you’d probably just do it again. I think you need to see for yourself how bad it feels to be dropped.”

Trish looked straight at him, a sweet smile on her slightly freckled face. In Strumpert’s eyes, the light of a terrible realization dawned. He tightened his grip on her arm.

“Oh please, please!”

She shook her head. With a look of horror, Strumpert saw that he held nothing in his hands, and the woman's lifesaving finger had been withdrawn.

He fell.

Trish swooshed down and away, to land half a second later by Megan, who would complete the little drama. Megan had tracked the entire performance clairvoyantly. She shot upward to catch and cushion the falling man. As Strumpert dropped into her arms no more than 30 feet above the crowd, Megan looked into eyes wide, glazed and mindless with terror. He fainted.

She touched down lightly, in the center of the circle she’d drawn. Still cradling the beefy man in her arms, small Megan knelt to lay him gently down. Feeling a sudden quake run through the big frame, Megan forgot about gentleness, hastily emptied her arms of him, and sprang back. He rolled heavily to the pavement, and vomited. The spasm of sickness revived him, and he looked around.

“Thank God,” he croaked, hoarsely, clutching at the concrete, sobbing and shaking, oblivious to the vomit.

“He did say we'd have a mother of a mess,” Wilkins remarked to Megan and Trish.

They smiled, looked at Strumpert, then quickly looked away.

“That’s one I — we all owe you,” the lieutenant told them. “Him most of all.” He indicated, with distaste, the sick man groveling on the sidewalk.

“If there is ever anything I or the Lawrencedale Police can do for you, please don’t hesitate for a second to call me personally,” Wilkins said, meeting their eyes squarely. “Any time.”

“You're not married, are you?” Trish asked with another pretty smile, only half-teasing. Wilkins laughed. “All right boys, let’s get this mess cleaned up.” He turned to Trish. “No,” he said with a grin. “Not married. See you around town — and thanks again.”

With the show over, the crowd dispersed.

“Oh my God, what a morning — and what a week!” Trish said.

“I guess we might as well go in and look at boots now,” Megan suggested. “If you want to,” she added, seeing Trish hesitate. “After all, Trish, you're the hero of the day again.”

“Actually,” Trish said, “maybe we could get that glass of wine, now – or a cup of coffee, maybe. It’s kind of early for wine, yet.”

“Is your adrenaline still flowing from all that swooshing up and down?” Megan asked.

“Yes. To tell the truth, though, that guy cracked a lot sooner than I thought he would.”

After a short wait, the pair got a booth in Dillbury’s Coffee Shoppe. The spacious shop featured high, airy ceilings. Murals and potted plants decorated the pleasant space.

“So what did you think about that story they did on your husband?” Trish asked, sipping her coffee.

“Oh, it was okay,” Megan replied. “But old John-boy sure laid it on thick in places.”

“You mean like how he knows he has to share you with the world now, and he’s ready to do his part to support you and be there for you?”

“Yes, and how it’s not easy living up to my new standards ...”

Megan looked at the high ceiling and shook her head. “All I ever ask from him is a little housework now and then. I already do 90 percent of it. Always have. If he worried half as much about cleaning the house as he does about whether the Broncos will win the world series –”

“Super Bowl,” Trish corrected.

“Super Bowl,” Megan repeated, “then we’d get along fine. And then he has the nerve to hop in bed with that reporter!”

“What?” Trish almost shouted. “Oh, Megan! What happened?”

“Well, to be fair, she went out of her way to seduce him. Have you ever seen her?”

“No. Is she cute?”

Megan sighed and fingered her short brown hair. “In the worst way. Long blonde hair, big blue eyes, and she’s got these long, gorgeous legs – and she really came on to him during the interview.”

“Why would she do a thing like that, Megs? That’s not very professional.”

“I think she’s jealous. Jealous that we got the powers, and she didn’t. She seems like a woman who’s not used to feeling inferior. Good thing she didn’t get enhanced, though. Put our powers in a body like that, and she could take every one of our old hound dogs away without a thought.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Oh, I was looking in on him from work. I get worried sometimes, and I just want to reassure myself he’s all right. When I realized what Anne Straits looked like, though, I decided to pay closer attention.”

“You spied on him with your powers?”

“Well — yes,” Megan said. She grinned shamefacedly. Both cups of coffee were getting cold. “I know I shouldn’t have. And afterward, I promised I wouldn’t do it anymore. But I’m glad I did. I feel I kept him — kept both of them — from making a big mistake.”

“So you caught them before they did the dirty deed?”

“Barely.”

Trish laughed. “I sure would’ve liked to have seen their faces.”

“I did kind of enjoy it, even though I was really mad,” Megan admitted. “I was absolutely in the right, AND I was in total control.”

“What was his excuse?”

“That I'm too bossy, and my powers give me an unfair advantage. I guess I have been a little overbearing. But we kissed and made up.”

“Ms. Reilly and Ms. Harris?”

A plump, obviously embarrassed young woman stood by their table. Her hair was past her shoulders, long, dark and straight. Her features, though plain, were attractive in an unassuming way, and she wore a lavender full-length down coat.

Always wanted one of those coats, Megan thought. Don't need one now. Looks like she's been crying.

“I’m Trish Reilly, and this is Megan Harris,” Trish said. “What can we do for you, honey?”

“Nothing really,” the woman said. “My name is Diane, Diane Penneywell –”

“Well, Diane, please join us,” Megan said, moving over in the booth.

“Oh, thank you,” Penneywell said hesitantly, sitting next to Megan. “I appreciate that. And really, I just wanted to say thank you –”

Megan and Trish exchanged a glance.

"— You see, Eddie Strumpert’s my boyfriend, and the police, um, a lieutenant someone, called me up and told me what happened.” Words spilled out of Penneywell in a jumble. “So I rushed down here. I was so worried. And Eddie said when he got done with the police, he would never leave me again. He said he wouldn’t even leave the house! Then I started to cry, and the lieutenant said he thought you two came in here, if I wanted to thank you –”

“Well, honey, you’re welcome,” Trish said. “But Eddie seemed to think you wouldn’t take him back.”

“I know,” she said, voice trembling. “That was my mistake. We’ve been living together for a long time, but every time we had a disagreement, he’d yell and walk out and stay gone a couple of days. This last time I told him if he left, don’t come back. But I didn’t really mean it! I never had any idea he would — he would try —” Tears came.

Megan put an arm around the quaking woman. I’ve been through more crying today than in the last two years combined, she thought.

“Diane, men are just big dummies,” Trish explained. “They don’t know any better.”

“I know,” Penneywell sniffled. Megan fished in her purse, but Trish handed the distraught woman a napkin. Penneywell dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose. “He’s my big dummy, though. And now I have him back, thanks to you.” She turned to Megan.

“I read about your husband in the paper. You’re so lucky to have such an angel.”

Megan looked at her cold coffee and smiled. “Yes, he's lovely,” she said.

Penneywell stood up. “I just wanted to see if I could catch you for a minute, to say thank you. I know things will be better for us now. I’m sorry about the crying, but I just can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“That's okay, honey,” Trish reassured her. “You just tell Eddie I’ve got my eye on him, and if he causes you any trouble, he and I will have another little chat.”

Megan and Trish stayed silent until Penneywell was out the coffee shop door.

“I guess I don’t feel so much like a bull in a china shop now,” Trish said with a grin.

“Yeah, we did good," Megan responded. “You, mostly. I wonder what the ‘angel’ is up to this morning. He was supposed to vacuum when he got up.”

“Well, you promised not to look in on him with your remote-sensing powers,” Trish pointed out. “But I never did.”

Megan smiled wickedly. “Would you?”

Trish faced toward the Harris’s modest home in south Lawrencedale, and shut her eyes. “He’s up," she reported. “He's wearing the raggediest bathrobe I ever saw.”

“I bought him a brand new one two months ago!” Megan said indignantly. “He refuses to wear it. He loves that ratty old thing. I’m throwing it out! What's he doing now?”

“He's in the kitchen. He’s getting something out of the refrigerator. Looks like a pitcher of orange juice.”

“Really?” Megan asked, pleased. “I’m always after him to drink juice.”

“He's putting the juice aside. He’s getting something else out. What is it? Let’s see ... oh. It’s a beer. Kind of early, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Megan said, not pleased.

“Now he’s going in the other room. He’s turning on the TV. Looks like football. Now he’s on the couch. He’s putting his feet on the coffee table –”

“Not my good glass coffee table!” Megan almost shouted. “I've told him a million times –” In an instant she was out of the booth.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, fire-eyes?” Trish asked. “Got to punish some bad guys?”

Megan stopped. She paused a moment, then resumed her seat.

“Well, you can’t win them all,” she said lightly. “Trish, do you think it’s still too early for that glass of wine?”