One Summer (12 page)

The next morning, Marybeth Edwards had been found almost a mile away, lying in a ditch by the side of the road, her body covered with blood and summersweet blossoms.

Johnny had sworn, over and over again, that he had not killed her. He had not been believed; he would never be believed. Not by the people of Tylerville.

She could not sleep with him, however much the notion secretly excited her. Even if he had never been convicted of murder, the prospect was unthinkable. She was five years older than he, and he had once been her student. Tylerville would rock with the scandal of it.

Her mother would die.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” Rob observed in her ear as, an arm around her back, he ushered her along the moonlit path beside the lake. Ahead of them, other couples followed the same route, alternately admiring the luminaries
that had been set up to one side of the path and the panorama of bright stars overhead. The night air was warm, the gravel path was crunchy underfoot, and the blurred reflection of the night sky in the placid surface of the lake was lovely enough to soothe even the most agitated of thoughts.

She would put Johnny Harris out of her mind, Rachel resolved firmly, and leaned a little closer against Rob’s side.

“I’m just tired, I guess.”

“We could always go to my house and, uh—relax.”

Rachel knew perfectly well what he was suggesting, and that relaxing had nothing to do with it. Funny, she had once had the same thought as to how their evening together might end. Now the idea lacked appeal.
Sleep with me instead
, she seemed to hear Johnny’s whisper on the low moan of the wind, and she shivered in Rob’s grasp.

“Cold?”

“No.”

“Good.” Taking advantage of the shelter provided by a tall northern pine, Rob pulled her off the path into his arms and kissed her mouth. Rachel had to tell herself to relax against him, to encircle his neck with her arms. For the first time, his tongue entering her mouth was an intrusion. Her instinct was to turn her face away.

She had to remind herself that Rob was the future. In a town the size of Tylerville, a better prospect for husband and father would not be found. And she wanted both.

“Hey, you two lovebirds, break it up. I’ve got an idea.”

The voice belonged to Dave Henley, the town dentist, who with his wife Susan had accompanied them to the concert. Dave was Rob’s best buddy. Rachel was fond of him and fonder still of Susan, with whom she had been good friends since grade school. She knew that both of them were hoping that she and Rob would make a match of it. They made such a good foursome.

“Bug off, Henley. Can’t you see we’re busy?” But Rob’s
voice was good-natured, and he released Rachel. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she was relieved by the interruption. She moved away from Rob’s side to join Susan, who grinned conspiratorially at her.

“So what’s your idea?” Rachel asked Dave, unable to reply to Susan’s grin in any way her friend was likely to find satisfactory.

Dave said, “They’ve just opened up a new place out on Highway Twenty-one. Hurricane O’Shea’s, I think the name of it is. They’re supposed to have good music and dancing and—”

“Booze,” Susan finished, sounding like someone presenting the pièce de résistance. Tylerville was situated in a dry county, which made the lure of liquor nearly irresistible.

“Wow,” Rachel responded, laughing at Susan’s air of exaggerated eagerness.

“You want to go?” Rob asked, joining Rachel and taking her hand. He was smiling down at her, and she thought for what must have been the hundredth time since she had started going out with him, what an estimable man he was. What kind of fool was she not to snatch him up? Only in books did bells ring and rockets burst and heavenly choruses sing when a woman found Mr. Right. In fact, only in books
was
there a Mr. Right. In real life, most women were happy to settle for Mr. Good Enough.

“Sure, why not?” At least for another hour or two it would keep her from having to decide whether to let Rob take her to bed tonight. Guiltily she realized that, if faced with the choice at that moment, her instincts would all shout no.

The drive out Highway 21 took some twenty minutes. When they pulled into the parking lot of Hurricane O’Shea’s, for that was indeed its name, Rachel was not surprised to discover that it was full to overflowing. There wasn’t much nightlife in the vicinity of Tylerville to provide
competition. Even the movie theaters showed the last feature at nine o’clock.

The music blasted out at them before they reached the door.

“ ‘You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille!’ ”

“ ‘You bitch! You slut! You whore!’ ”

What? Rachel’s eyes widened as the unfamiliar second line, shouted out from many throats in a gleeful chant, assaulted her ears. She, Rob, Susan, and Dave exchanged glances.

“Sounds rowdy!” Dave grinned in anticipation and pulled open the door. Rob shrugged, and they all headed inside.

The place, which Rachel realized was a converted auto repair garage, had concrete block walls that had been painted a vibrant red. Overhead, exposed electrical lines and plumbing pipes were shaded the same dark gray as the unfinished ceiling. Underfoot lay a multilevel hardwood floor. Neon signs advertising everything from Miller Lite to the Beatles flashed from the walls. Twin pianos with a pair of boisterous singers, and a long-legged blonde in a bright yellow satin parody of a cheerleader’s outfit, led the action.

“ ‘Shout! Come on, baby, shout! Come on, baby!’ ” The raucous melody had the crowd on its feet, singing, or rather bellowing, along. The newly arrived foursome edged along the back wall, which was on the highest level. Of the four tiers, each a foot or so lower than the previous one, three were jammed with foot-stomping, fist-waving, shouting patrons. The bottom tier was the dance floor, packed with enthusiastically gyrating bodies.

“This place is wild!” Susan said.

“Far out!” Dave concurred.

Rob caught Rachel’s hand and held it tightly, as if afraid he might lose her in all the hullabaloo. Luckily they happened to pass behind a table just as its occupants were
getting up to leave. Dave grabbed it with a triumphant whoop.

“What can I get you?” The waitress materialized with tray and pad as they were settling into their seats.

They ordered. Rachel, an unenthusiastic drinker even with the spur of alcohol’s relative unavailability, chose a daiquiri. She found it palatable enough, and she knew from experience that she would be happy to sip on the single drink all night.

By the time their drinks arrived, Rob was visibly wincing at the unrelenting volume of the music. Rachel would have enjoyed it more if it had been a decibel or so softer, but the beat was infectious and she caught herself tapping her toes to it. Dave munched popcorn and gulped down bourbon and Coke, while Susan examined the other people present with as much interest as Rachel did. Some of the women were outlandishly dressed, in micro-miniskirts and mesh stockings and tops that glittered with sequins. Under the flashing lights that illuminated the dance floor, sequins sparkled like brilliantly colored jewels.

“Good gracious, can you imagine wearing something like that?” Susan yelled in Rachel’s ear, indicating a willowy, leather-miniskirted woman with improbably red hair who swayed past them. The object of Susan’s disbelief was the woman’s blouse. It was black and sheer, except for a few strategically placed sequins. Clearly she wore nothing beneath.

Rachel shook her head, and her gaze followed the woman down to the dance floor, where she threw herself into the music with abandon. As she watched the woman’s gyrations with shocked amusement, Rachel’s attention was caught by a tall, leanly muscular man and a blond-haired woman near her. The couple were writhing in a sensuous frenzy that approximated foreplay more than dancing. The light flashed again, illuminating the dance floor for seconds only.

Those few seconds were long enough. Feeling as
though someone had punched her in the stomach, Rachel identified the man with the blonde as Johnny Harris. That jet-black ponytail, so out of place in Tylerville, and the wide-shouldered, lean-hipped body made him impossible to mistake. As the light flashed again, she even managed to name his companion: Glenda, the waitress from the Clock.

11

“E
xcuse me. I need to go to the rest room.” Rachel used the excuse desperately. She could not sit there and watch Johnny Harris all but making love to Glenda. Not after the fantasies she’d been having about him. Not after the way he had come on to her, and she, God help her, had responded.

Of course, she thought bitterly as she made her way toward the narrow dark corridor that led to the ladies’ room, Johnny Harris had always had a way with women. Even when he was in high school, he’d never lacked for girlfriends. The ones from nice families, forbidden by their parents to so much as speak to him, had followed him with their eyes.

If she found him sexy, and honesty forced her to admit she did, she could just add her name to a long list.

The rest room was small, painted red like the corridor, with brick walls that were blessedly thick enough to mute the relentless barrage of sound. Its only other occupant left as Rachel entered. Relieved to be alone, she washed her hands, allowing the cool water to run over her wrists for a minute or so. Then she cupped her hands to take a drink. Something, the daiquiri or the noise or her own emotions, had made her feel sick to her stomach.

Another woman entered and went into a stall. Rachel
dried her hands on a paper towel and left. She would go back to the table and plead illness, if that was what it would take to get away.

The men’s room was directly across the hall from the women’s, so Rachel was not surprised to see a man approaching. The corridor was dark except for the purple glow and occasional flash of light at its entrance and the red neon signs announcing the rest rooms. She hugged her side of the wall as she and the man prepared to pass each other. When he shot out a hand to grab her arm, she squeaked with alarm.

Her gaze flew upward to fix on Johnny Harris’s face.

“Slumming?” he asked, with what could only be described as a sneer.

“Obviously you’re not,” she responded coldly.

“No, I’m right at home,” he agreed, looming closer. His left hand curled around her arm. Rachel could feel the heat and strength of his fingers clear down to her toes. In his right hand he held a beer. She would never have noticed it if he had not lifted it at that moment and taken a swig.

“I’m surprised the boyfriend brought you to a place like this. He doesn’t look like the type to ever let his hair down and have a good time.”

“If you’ll please let go of my arm, I’ll rejoin him, and we’ll continue to have fun in our own dull way.”

“I didn’t mean that you were dull, Rachel—only him. You have immense—possibilities.” The way he drew out that last word, the way his eyes glinted as they moved over her face and then down the front of her dress, made Rachel’s toes curl at the same time as it angered her.

“Would you let me go, please?” Her voice was crisp.

He lifted the beer to take another swallow, then slowly shook his head. As he grinned, the pulsing purplish light made the sudden gleam of his teeth seem incredibly white.

“Not till you dance with me. You haven’t danced once. I’ve been watching.”

The notion that he had been watching her was unsettling. Rachel swallowed, then shook her head.

“Thank you for asking, but no. I have to get back to my friends, just as I’m sure you need to get back to yours.”

“Glenda’s a good girl, and we’re with a crowd. She won’t miss me for a while, or care if she does. If it’s the boyfriend you’re worried about, he won’t see you. We’ll stay to the back of the dance floor where it’s nice and dark.”

His hand slid down to imprison her wrist, and he was already tugging her toward the doorway as he spoke. Rachel resisted.

“Johnny, no.”

He stopped, shrugging, and entwined his fingers with hers as he smiled down at her. “Okay. I guess I’ll just have to take you back to your friends.”

“No!” Horror sharpened her voice. The thought of what might happen should Rob get into a confrontation with Johnny over her made her shudder.

“No? Then dance with me, Rachel. Come on, it’ll be fun, and then I’ll let you go. Promise.” His eyes gleamed down at her, teasing her, luring her. Caught between two evils and suddenly sorely tempted, Rachel was mute. Taking her silence for assent, his hand hard and warm about hers, Johnny pulled her out into the cavernous night club and toward the dance floor.

Annoyed, apprehensive, and yes, already so seduced by the notion of dancing with him that she could not have refused now even if he’d have listened, Rachel cast a wary glance toward the topmost tier, where her friends’ table was. In the darkness, with about half the mob of people on their feet singing along to the strains of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” she couldn’t even locate the table, much less pick out Rob.

“I don’t even like to dance,” Rachel protested when
Johnny set his beer down on a nearby, fully occupied table and dragged her onto the floor. The Righteous Brothers’ classic ended with a melodic flourish, and one of the entertainers called out, “Is it dark enough for you down there on the dance floor?”