The Forgiving Hour (12 page)

Only the twenty-fifth of October, and it was snowing outside Sara’s fifteenth-story office window. The flurry of white was so thick she could barely make out the building across the street. That meant the drive home would be treacherous. Denver freeways at five o’clock were a wild and wooly experience under the best of circumstances. But throw slick roads and low visibility into the mix …

A knock at the opening of her small cubicle drew her attention from the window.

“Sara?” Melanie Slade leaned in. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind about tonight? My brother’s keen on meeting you.”

“No, but thanks.” She reached for her purse. “I want to get home before it really dumps on us.”

“You need to get a life, girlfriend.”

Melanie’s parting comment echoed in Sara’s mind as she drove out of the city, heading north. She knew her coworker was right. She didn’t have much of a life.

At the end of her freshman year of college, Sara had come to Colorado, hoping to escape the memories that were around every corner in Boise. She’d found a place to rent, taken an entry-level clerical job at Richards and Clemmons, and burrowed in to nurse her wounded heart. More than three years later, she was still nursing it.

She tried not to think of that dark spring, but the unwelcome memories lingered, worsening whenever a man indicated interest in her. She would look at him and wonder,
Are you lying to me too? Are you another Dave? Do you have a wife and child at home?
She never stayed around long enough to find out. It wasn’t worth the risk.

“You ought to find a church to attend, dear,” Kristina Jennings had said over the telephone last night. “It would do you good, and you might meet some nice young men there. And what about your acting? There must be a community theater in your area. They would be thrilled to have someone with your talent, and you’re sure to make some new friends if you get involved.”

But that suggestion only caused Sara to remember opening night of
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,
to remember the applause she’d received, to remember Dave and the night she’d given herself away so easily, so cheaply.

How sordid the affair seemed to her now. How foolish and naive she’d been. But at least she would never play the fool again. She’d rather live and die all alone than trust another man with her heart.

By the time Sara turned into the parking lot of her apartment complex, she was thoroughly depressed. This wasn’t what she’d expected out of life, to live like this. She’d always been the darling of the family, the spoiled one — and she’d known it too. Everything had come easily to her. Now she was far from her parents and brothers, just getting by on her lousy salary, living in a one-bedroom apartment with only her cat to keep her company.

Maybe she should have gone with Melanie and the others tonight. Dinner, a drink, maybe some dancing. It might be nice to do something different for a change.

But what if she liked Melanie’s brother? No, it wasn’t worth the risk.

She nearly slipped and fell on the slick sidewalk as she made her way from the carport to the stairs. It wouldn’t have surprised her if she had. It would be just her kind of luck to break her tailbone or ankle or something.

Sara’s calico cat meowed a greeting as the door swung open. The feline twisted, serpentine, around the legs of the wooden rocker in the living room, her tail sticking straight up in the air.

“Hello, Gretchen.”

Sara lifted the cat into her arms and rubbed her cheek against warm, soft fur. Her reward was a loud purr of contentment.

“It’s not so bad, just the two of us, huh? It’s just the way we like it. Right?”

TWELVE

The tip of Dakota’s cigarette glowed red as he took a deep drag. He wished he had one of those beers he’d stashed in the garage, but he didn’t dare leave his room. He was taking a chance just sitting here on the windowsill.

He ought to throw some things in a duffel bag and take off. He could hitchhike over to Portland or down to San Francisco or L.A. He could pass for eighteen if he had to; he was plenty tall enough. And lots of guys his age were on their own, not having to put up with being grounded by parents or listening to a mental school principal or jerk teachers.

Yeah, it would be easy to just take off.

Like you-know-who did.

That was an unpleasant thought. He didn’t want to be anything like Dave Porter. Not in any way. But leaving his mom would make him the same, and he knew it.

Dakota muttered a few choice swearwords. He hated school and his teachers and Mr. Hathaway, hated never having any money to call his own, hated just about everything and everyone. He definitely hated the man who’d been his father. He even hated himself.

The one person he could never hate was his mom. She’d done everything for him. She’d sacrificed everything for him. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought herself something that wasn’t a dire necessity. When there was any extra money, which there rarely was, she spent it on him.

There’s somebody that can help you, man.

Sure, he knew what John had meant. He’d been talking about Jesus Christ. But Dakota didn’t belong in church, not with all this ugliness inside him, and he knew it even if John didn’t.

Nobody said life was gonna be easy … He just said you wouldn’t have to go through it alone.

“Well, that’d sure be nice if it was true.”

I am true.

Guiltily, he flicked his cigarette out the window and jumped up from the sill. He turned toward the door. No one was there. The Voice had seemed so real, but his mind must have been playing tricks on him. Still, his heart continued to pound at a rapid rate.

“Too weird.”

There’s somebody that can help you, man.

What if John was right?

Claire looked up from the pile of papers on the kitchen table. The clock on the wall read eleven-fifteen. Weariness blurred her vision, but there was no stopping now. She needed to get these bills paid. Some were already a week late.

Suddenly overwhelmed by her circumstances, she pressed her forehead against the heels of her hands. Hot tears burned her throat and the backs of her eyes. Every month it was the same thing, robbing Peter to pay Paul, choosing whom to pay now and whom to pay late — or not to pay at all.

More than once she’d considered filing for bankruptcy. It would be a way out from under all this. But she’d always resisted the temptation. Maybe pride kept her from it. More than likely her belief that doing so would give Dave another victory kept her from it.

Bitterness, all of it centered on the memory of her ex-husband, twisted her heart. If Dave would make even an occasional child-support payment, it would help. But he never did. Paying even a little would have tipped off the authorities that were charged with finding deadbeat dads. But the real reason he didn’t pay was because he simply didn’t care what happened to his ex or his son.

Claire often wanted to give up, to just curl into a fetal position and die. If it weren’t for Dakota …

She straightened and looked toward his bedroom door. What was she going to do about her son? There was so much rage walled up inside of him. She recognized the feelings because they were a reflection of her own. Even the changing of their names was an extension of their shared bitterness.

Looking down at the stack of bills, she reminded herself that there were plenty of good reasons for Dakota to hate the name of Porter and the man who’d given it to him at birth. Claire also knew it was wrong for her to encourage those feelings, but she couldn’t help it. The same hate festered in her soul.

A soft moan slipped from her lips. Oh yes, she hated Dave. She hated him much more than Dakota did. She hated him for betraying her. She hated him for stealing the dreams and expectations she’d once had. She hated him for not being the man she’d thought him to be.

It wasn’t only his affair with that girl she’d seen him with. Claire probably could have gotten over that, given time. She’d believed in him and the sanctity of their marriage. She’d meant the promises she made on their wedding day, even if he hadn’t. Being his wife had defined her existence. Being Mrs. Dave Porter—and mother to his son — was all she’d wanted to be.

Without him, it seemed she’d vanished too.

She sighed, remembering it all. She’d loved him so very much, enough to forgive him anything, even infidelity. Now she could forgive him nothing. Not after he’d deserted their only child. She could never forgive that. The pain in her son’s eyes wounded her beyond the healing hand of time.

How could Dave have done it? How could he have tossed aside Dakota as if he didn’t exist?

Claire abruptly shoved away her checkbook and the bills, rose from her chair, and walked into the living room of the small house she rented in an older section of town. The insulation was poor, and cold air seeped in around windows and exterior door frames. Even with the curtains drawn, she could feel the draft.

Just one more symbol of her miserable existence, of her string of failures.

“I certainly know how to feel sorry for myself,” she whispered in disgust.

She crossed to the living room window and drew aside the faded drapes to look outside. A streetlight illuminated her lawn and the misshapen oak tree in her next-door neighbor’s yard. Across the street, the Thorndike home was decorated for Halloween with carved pumpkins and a straw-stuffed scarecrow. A family lived in that house. A
whole
family—dad, mom, and kids. Just like the Porters used to —

“Mom?”

She gasped and spun around, pressing her right hand against her speeding heart. “Dakota, what are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” One corner of his mouth curved in a crooked, halfhearted grin. “Sorry I scared you.”

Her laugh was shaky, still affected by the surprise he’d given her. “You should be.”

“Mom … I … ah …” He dropped his gaze to the dull hardwood floor. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you today. You shouldn’t have to leave work on account of me. I really am sorry.”

“I know you are.”

He met her gaze once more. “I don’t mean to do things like that. It’s just sometimes —”

Again, more softly, “I know.”

“Well, I just wanted to tell you.”

“Thanks, honey.”

He turned toward his room, then looked over his shoulder. “John invited me to start going to his church’s youth stuff again. They still meet on Wednesday nights. You think I could go? I mean, I know I’m grounded but …” He let the words fade into silence.

Claire’s chest was tight with emotion as she met her son’s hopeful gaze. Part tough guy. Part little boy. Full of promise of the man he would one day be. She’d failed him countless times. She’d been a less-than-perfect parent.

What was the best thing to do in this instance? Let him go or be strict and stick to the punishment?

How am I supposed to know what to do?

There had to be an answer to her silent question; only Claire didn’t know where to look for it.

“I’ll think about it,” she answered at last.

He nodded, then went off to bed, leaving Claire once again with her troubled thoughts.

THIRTEEN

Best Homes Real Estate had a large office on one of the busiest streets in town. Claire usually went into the office, which she now managed for Jack Moncur, at seven in the morning, just to beat the worst of Boise’s rush-hour traffic. She tried to leave by four in the afternoon for the same reason. It didn’t always work out that way.

On this particular Friday, there had been one of those lastminute closing crises that were not uncommon in the real-estate business. Claire had spent the better part of the afternoon chasing down signatures and delivering them to the title company so a young, extremely anxious, highly agitated couple would be able to start moving into their new home over the weekend. Now she was trying to get her most pressing duties done so she could call it a day and go home.

The building was almost deserted as five o’clock drew near, but the receptionist, Nancy Bartlett, was still at her desk, and George Mitchell, one of Best Homes’ top agents, was in the copy room, using up reams of legal-size paper.

Claire stared at the blinking green cursor on her computer screen. Her eyes hurt. Her head ached. But she was determined to get these entries made today. Otherwise, she would start off next week already behind. And the end of the month was always a zoo with more things to do than seemed possible to handle.

The intercom buzzed, and Nancy’s voice came through the speaker. “Claire, there’s a Mr. Kreizenbeck here to see you.”

Surprised, she pressed the button. “Send him in, Nancy. Thanks.” She stood, but before she could step around her desk, Maury Kreizenbeck appeared in her office doorway.

John’s father was a shorter, heftier version of his son. He had one of those pleasant, unremarkable faces, the kind that if a police officer asked for a description, the answer would include words like
average, ordinary, usual.
One thing that wasn’t ordinary was his smile. A look of genuine pleasure that went way beneath the surface. Even though she hadn’t seen him in at least two years, Claire remembered that smile and was warmed by it now.