Authors: Darlene Gardner
Her spine stiffened. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“People will give you the benefit of doubt since you’re new in town,” he continued, as though he hadn’t
heard her. “They’ll figure you didn’t know what he was, but that’ll only last so long.”
His manner was so presumptuous she should have asked him to leave, but curiosity stopped her. Michael’s certainty that last night’s vandal had targeted only him made Sara feel she was missing half the story.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “What don’t I know?”
“He didn’t tell you, did he?”
“Tell me what?”
“That he’s a murderer.” Coleman’s features twisted with disgust so tangible she felt as though it was spewing from him.
Sara backed away, unwilling to get sprayed.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
Michael was a hero. She’d seen him rescue that little boy from certain death with her own eyes.
His discordant laugh was without mirth. “What is it about Donahue that makes it so easy for him to manipulate women? Is it his handsome face?”
“If you knew me,” she said tightly, “you’d realize I’m not easy to manipulate.”
“Yet here you are defending a murderer.”
“I’m defending a man I know to be a good man,” she said.
“Does a good man talk a girl into dropping out of high-school and leaving town with him in the middle of the night? Does a good man promise to marry her and then lie to her and cheat on her?” The tone of his voice escalated with every question. “Does a good man get so angry when she tries to leave him that he drags
her out of a bar, says she’s coming home with him and speeds down a narrow back road?”
Sara started to get a sick feeling in her stomach. She should ask him to leave, tell him she didn’t want to hear any more, but couldn’t form any words.
“That girl was my daughter, Chrissy,” Coleman continued. “She was in the passenger seat the night your ‘good man’ lost control of the car. The car left the road and rolled down an embankment before it slammed into a tree. Neither of them was wearing a seat belt. They were both ejected. Donahue lived. My daughter died.”
Sara could barely process the information. His story didn’t seem to leave much room for interpretation except there had to be more to it than what he was telling.
“But—” she began.
“Don’t you dare make excuses for him,” he retorted. “Chrissy was only eighteen when she died. Eighteen!”
Sara had thought Quincy Coleman nondescript when she’d glimpsed him through the window, the sort of businessman getting on in years she’d passed on the street a dozen times a day when she lived in Washington, D.C. Ordinary. Harmless.
However, the vitriol radiating from the man transformed him, making him look fierce and capable of anything.
“You’re the one who slashed the tires on Michael’s car,” she accused.
“If you keep hanging around him, somebody might slash yours, too.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Coleman advanced toward her, the first time he’d moved since entering the office. “I’m advising you to be careful of the company you keep.”
“That sounds like a threat to me.” Michael stood in the open doorway, giving the same response Sara had been about to make. His voice was low, his body taut. “Your beef is with me. Leave Sara out of it.”
Quincy Coleman whirled on Michael, his skin turning red and splotchy. “You brought her into it! Then you didn’t even have the guts to tell her you were a murderer!”
Sara waited for Michael to defend himself against the outrageous charge, but he stood rigidly silent.
“What? You’ve got nothing to say?” Coleman shouted, his breathing harsh and uneven. “Aren’t you going to tell her how you got away with murder?”
Coleman looked angry enough to attack, but still Michael said nothing.
“That’s enough, Mr. Coleman.” Sara positioned herself between the two men, suddenly sure that Michael wouldn’t defend himself if Coleman did throw a punch. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Not until you understand I’m not threatening you,” Coleman said. “I’m warning you. Like I wish someone had warned my Chrissy.”
“Mr. Coleman,” Sara began.
“I’m going.” He stalked to the door but turned before he exited, pointing a finger at Michael. “Just don’t let yourself be fooled by anything
he
says.”
He slammed the door shut behind him, and then for long moments there was absolute silence. The only part of Michael that moved was his jaw, which he was clenching.
“Well?” Sara prompted. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
“Like what?”
“Like how unjust it is for Quincy Coleman to go around calling you a murderer! Why, he practically admitted he was the one who slashed your tires!”
The indignation she expected to appear on Michael’s face never came. “It crossed my mind he might have done it,” he said.
She didn’t understand his detached attitude, his quiet acceptance of Coleman’s accusations. “Then you should have let me call the police. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be slandering you.”
“The truth isn’t slander, Sara,” Michael said, sounding tired. “There are things you don’t know, things I should have told you before now.”
“You can’t tell me anything to make me believe Quincy Coleman.”
“How about this?” Michael asked. “He’s right. His daughter is dead because of me.”
“No,” she breathed.
“Yes. She left town with me because she thought I loved her. She was wrong.”
“You were only eighteen! You’d just been thrown out of your aunt’s house. Of course you wanted somebody to care about you.”
“Would you stop making excuses for me and listen? Coleman had me arrested for vehicular homicide, but the charges didn’t stick. I should have been convicted. I should have gone to jail.”
Sara stared at him mutely, trying to process what he was telling her. It was too much, too fast. In the legal
arena she prided herself on clear thinking, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around any of it.
He expelled an audible breath and ran a hand over his lower face. “I’ll understand if you don’t want me to paint your office, but please don’t drop my aunt’s case. I’ll pay your usual rate. Just give me the bill and don’t let her know how much it really costs.”
“Wait a minute.” The cluttered thoughts in her head coalesced into one: He was trying to back out of their business arrangement. “Why wouldn’t I want you to paint my office?”
“You heard Coleman. You’ll have a hard time getting accepted in this town if you’re connected to me.”
“I don’t care what Coleman said. We had an agreement, and I’m holding you to it.”
“Are you sure that’s smart?”
With Michael trying hard to convince her that Coleman’s accusations had merit, Sara wasn’t sure of anything except she’d never been one to let what other people thought dictate her actions.
“I’m sure I want you to keep up your end of the bargain,” she said.
Michael didn’t speak for long moments, then held some sheets out to her. “I picked up some paint-chip charts. After you choose the colors, I’ll buy the paint and get started.”
He kept talking, outlining a timetable that would have him finishing the job by the end of the week, but she was only half listening. It was hard to concentrate when she couldn’t reconcile her impressions of Michael with what she’d just heard.
If Michael had been driving recklessly that night, Quincy Coleman was right. Michael should have paid for his daughter’s life with jail time.
She couldn’t help thinking there was more to the story, but how could she continue to defend a man who was so insistent on taking the blame?
“I’
VE MISSED
the hell out of you, Mikey Mike,” Johnny Pollock cried later that Tuesday night. “But no way am I letting you win!”
Johnny danced on the balls of his feet across the width of the air hockey table in the noisy arcade, sending shot after shot zinging toward the goal Michael was defending. He looked more like his teenage self than a married man who’d just returned from his honeymoon.
Michael acknowledged his friend’s cocky comment with an inelegant snort, even as he positioned his mallet in front of his net and strained to deflect the hard shots.
“Don’t want you to let up.” Michael had to shout to be heard above the motor of the table’s industrial-grade blower combined with the hum of video games. “Victory will be sweeter this way.”
“Ha!” Johnny shouted. “You’re going down, Donahue!”
Michael took a quick look at the score displayed in glowing red letters on the game’s panel. Despite Johnny’s relentless attack, they were deadlocked.
He quickly moved his sombrero-shaped mallet to counteract another of Johnny’s missiles. The puck ricocheted back to Johnny, who leaned over the table and
put all his power into his next shot. The thin black disc was moving at such a high rate of speed that Michael couldn’t get his mallet back into position fast enough.
The puck disappeared into Michael’s goal, making a clattering sound that meant only one thing.
Game over.
“Got you!” Johnny shouted, pumping a fist.
Michael let go of his mallet and straightened, moving around the table to meet his friend halfway. “What does that make your record against me? Two wins, two-hundred-twenty-two losses?”
“Funny,” Johnny said.
“True,” Michael countered.
“In this decade, I’m one and oh. That means you owe me a soda.”
They maneuvered through the arcade past teens with their eyes riveted to video screens and a skinny, loose-limbed boy navigating a Dance Dance Revolution video game. Following the directions of an on-screen prompt, the boy duplicated patterns with his quick feet on an arrowed panel.
The arcade led to a brightly lit area featuring a food counter and some booths. A young couple munching hot dogs and French fries occupied a single side of one booth, seated so close together a sheet of paper couldn’t fit between them. A trio of boys in another booth scarfed down hamburgers.
“A soda isn’t all you owe me,” Johnny said after they ordered a couple of root beers.
“Yeah, yeah,” Michael said grudgingly. “I remember.”
“Well?” Johnny prompted.
“You are the king,” Michael stated in a monotone. “All others bow before you.”
Johnny laughed uproariously. “I love hearing that!”
“Enjoy it,” Michael muttered, “because you might never beat me again.”
By mutual silent consent, they carried their drinks outside to a seating area consisting of four picnic tables. None were occupied so they took the one nearest the road and sat side by side facing the street, their legs outstretched.
They’d occupied the same spot years ago, although the old, scarred picnic tables had been replaced with new ones made of recycled plastic. The arcade was busier than it had been back then and so was the section of street in front of it. It used to be that any traffic on a weekday night was rare. Now it looked like a car or two a minute was passing by.
“What’s your bride gonna think about you coming home late on your first night back after the honeymoon?” Michael asked.
“Penelope is spending this week fixing up our new place so she’ll be cool with it,” Johnny said. “Besides, she knows how much I wanted to hang with you. I just never thought you’d be here when I got back.”
Michael had already explained that his great-aunt was facing the threat of foreclosure. “Never thought you’d come back so soon.”
“According to Penelope, the long weekend in Atlantic City was our pre-honeymoon. The Caribbean cruise this winter is the real deal.”
“Can’t argue with a woman who wants to get you alone on a boat,” Michael said.
“My thoughts exactly.” Johnny grinned. “So what’s this I hear about you angling to spend another two years with the Peace Corps?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised. I got the feeling you were tired of living in third-world countries.”
“Yeah, well, somebody’s got to do it.”
“You’ve been doing it for, what, seven years?” Johnny asked.
“Six,” Michael corrected. He’d gotten his first assignment at the same time he’d received his community college associate’s degree in construction and building management. So far he’d been stationed in Belize, Kenya and Niger.
“It might be time for somebody else to do it,” Johnny said.
“I’ll be fine once I recharge.” The night was warm and the air heavy with humidity. Michael took a swig of root beer, appreciating the sweet taste. He didn’t tell Johnny cold soft drinks weren’t readily available when you were living in the bush. “I’m thinking about renting a place on a lake after my aunt’s situation is squared away.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah, alone.” Michael directed a sharp look at Johnny. “Who’d be with me?”
“Penelope’s friend Sara.”
“That’s not happening,” Michael said quickly.
“Why not?”
“She has to live here after I leave.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Johnny said. “My dad would hire you in a heartbeat. Hell, with your experi
ence, you could start your own company. Or, better yet, form a partnership with us.”
Michael started shaking his head before Johnny finished the first sentence. “I can’t move back here. I told you about getting my tires slashed. You know how people feel about me.”
“I know how
I
feel about you. I know how my dad feels about you.”
“Give it a rest, Johnny.”
They sat in silence, listening to the whir of tires as the cars passed by. A car horn sounded in the distance. A child squealed with laughter somewhere down the street. Michael remembered it used to be so quiet you could hear the sounds of the arcade through the closed door.
“Know why you used to beat me at air hockey?” Johnny asked.
“Because you stink?”
Johnny usually laughed aloud when Michael made a comment like that, then gave back as good as he’d got. Tonight he didn’t even smile.
“Because you never played it safe like you did tonight,” Johnny said. “You used to be willing to take a risk.”
Michael didn’t pretend not to understand that Johnny was talking about more than air hockey. “In some of the countries where I’ve lived, being an American is taking a risk.”
“Yeah, but the Peace Corps sets up where you work, where you live, even who you associate with. That’s playing it safe.” Johnny stood up, crushing his soda can and tossing it into the waste basket. “For you, taking a risk would be moving back home.”
L
AURIE SLAMMED
the rolled-up newspaper onto the long wooden counter Thursday morning, attracting the attention of every person in the river-rafting shop.
The couple who’d just gotten through prepaying for the next trip down the river stepped back. The man shuffling through a rack of Indigo River Rafters T-shirts looked up. The two young girls trying on men’s sunglasses stopped giggling.
But the only person who interested Laurie was working behind the counter.
“Why would you do something like this, Kenny?” Her adrenaline was running so high she had to make a conscious effort not to shout.
“Do what?” Kenny’s hazel eyes grew wide and innocent, a trick she remembered from when they were married. It meant he was guilty as hell.
She unrolled the latest edition of a local tabloid and flipped through it. Setting the newspaper down on the counter so it faced Kenny, she jabbed her index finger at a quarter-page display ad at the bottom.
The advertisement looked as if it had been designed by a despondent Cupid. An arrow bisected a heart, splitting it into two sections.
Have pity on my broken heart,
read the type embedded in one side of the heart. The message inside the second side was the kicker:
Give me another chance, Laurie.
There was no signature, but Laurie hadn’t questioned who placed the ad for a single second. And to think Kenny had probably arranged for it after picking a fight with Mike Donahue to avenge the dead girl who lived on in his heart.
“So that’s what this is about.” Kenny actually smiled, revealing the deep dimple on his left cheek she used to think was so sexy. “The ad department did a good job, don’t you think?”
“Damn you, Kenny,” she snapped. “Don’t play dumb with me. I told you to leave me alone and instead you place this stupid ad for everybody in town to see. You know how people talk. Everybody will think we’re getting back together.”
He tilted his head. They were inside a modified warehouse that housed rafts, tubes, kayaks and paddles while also acting as a retail shop and business office. Morning sunlight spilled through an overhead window, highlighting the golden streaks in Kenny’s brown hair. His skin was tanned. Working on the river looked good on him. Damn him.
“Aren’t we getting back together?” he asked.
“No!”
He arched both eyebrows. “Then what are you doing here?”
“What kind of question is that? I’m cussing you out, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You could have picked up the phone. Hell, you could have ignored the ad.” He swept one hand in her direction. “Instead, here you are.”
She frowned. “So?”
“So you must have wanted to see me.”
She mentally reviewed the events that had led her to the river rafters. She’d opened the paper, spotted the ad and stormed out of the house, leaving the cup of coffee she’d been drinking as steamed as she was.
After guessing he’d be at the rafting shop, she’d
practically sprinted to the building when she spotted his car in the gravel parking lot.
“Of course I wanted to see you,” she said. “How else can I get it through your thick skull that I want you to leave me alone?”
“Think about it, Laurie.” He braced both hands on the counter and leaned close. “If you really meant that, you wouldn’t only tell me to stay away from you, you’d stay away from me, too.”
She jerked backward, temporarily unable to think up a comeback. An attractive woman wearing a green T-shirt identical to Kenny’s appeared from the back of the shop and joined Kenny at the counter.
“Hi, Laurie,” the woman said with an easy smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
With a shock, Laurie realized it was Annie Sublinski, a former classmate who’d been so shy when they were in high-school she was like a ghost. If not for the birthmark on the left side of Annie’s face, Laurie wouldn’t have recognized her even though she knew Annie owned the business.
“Hi, Annie,” Laurie said through gritted teeth. If she opened her mouth any wider, she’d start yelling at Kenny again.
Annie’s gaze swung from Laurie to Kenny before dipping to the newspaper and coming back up again. “Everything all right?”
“Everything’s great,” Kenny said. The jerk was actually grinning.
Annie took in the wide-legged navy trousers Laurie wore with a red ballet-neck short-sleeved shirt. “You don’t look like you’re dressed for rafting, Laurie.”
“I’m n-not. I, um…” Laurie stopped, annoyed with herself for stammering. It occurred to her that she and Annie were playing different roles than they had in high school, with all the poise in Annie’s corner. “I just came by to tell Kenny something.”
“Oh,” Annie said as if she understood when she couldn’t possibly.
“I’ve gotta go. I’ve, um, gotta get t-to work.” There she went stammering again, but now she had good reason. The wall clock behind the counter showed it was nearly ten o’clock, the starting time she and Sara had agreed upon for her first official day of work. She hadn’t considered she’d be late when she went hunting Kenny.
“I’ll be home by five if you feel like doing something,” Kenny called after her as she fled. “Just give me a call.”
Because she couldn’t come up with a snappy reply, she didn’t turn around. She just got the hell out of there.
S
ARA HADN’T
been able to go anywhere over the last few days without a friend of Quincy Coleman’s warning her to steer clear of Michael.
At the drugstore, it was the gray-haired pharmacist who filled her antihistamine prescription: “Quincy says you can’t turn your back on him.”
At Jimmy’s Diner, the waitress who rang up Sara’s takeout order: “I know he’s good-looking, but Quincy says a woman can’t believe a word he says.”
And at the post office, the clerk who sold her stamps: “Quincy says he got away with murder.”
Yet here Sara was, standing not six feet from Michael,
watching him use a power sander to smooth out a drywall repair.
She wiped her suddenly damp palms on the slim-fitting white pants she wore with a cropped yellow cotton jacket, ignored her jumpy stomach and moved closer to him.
His head swung in her direction, and it seemed to her that the corners of his mouth started to lift. But the glimmer of a smile was gone when he turned off the sander. “Do you need something?”
She needed to see him.
Because no matter what Quincy Coleman said, Michael corroborated and all those friends of Coleman intimated, she didn’t believe she’d gotten a true handle on what had happened in Michael’s past.
However, she couldn’t tell him that.
She held up the letter she’d written the day before announcing the opening of her practice. “I need to get to my copier.”
He nodded once, then removed the drop cloth from the copier in a fluid motion and immediately stood back, as though being careful not to get too close to her.
“Thanks,” she told him.
He wore an old T-shirt that showed off the definition in his arms and faded jeans that made his legs appear long and rangy. Stubble covered his lower face.
He looked like a conscientious, hard-working man and not the monster Coleman was portraying him to be.
“Anything new on my aunt’s case?” he asked.