"Just tell me, Dad," he said more softly. ''Tell me what happened. What you were thinking. I've wondered for twenty years why you would hurt Davy, and I need to know."
The old man took on the look of a frightened, cornered animal, and Nick half expected him to bolt from the room, leave him standing there alone, when finally he blurted, "You left it out."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"You left out your baseball bat. I told you to put it away. Every night I told you to put it away, but I walked into the garage that night, stepped on the damn thing, and nearly broke my neck."
Nick squinted. He knew he'd left the bat out. He'd always left the bat out; it had been one of many constant arguments between them at the time. "For that you hit Davy?" It made no sense, which hardly surprised him, yet he asked anyway.
"I. never meant to hit him." His father vehemently shook his head, tears beginning to flow down his cheeks. "He was a good boy, Davy. I never meant to hurt him. Never meant to hurt Davy. Not ever."
Nick stood shaking his head, too, bewildered. ''Then why, Dad? Why the hell did you do it?"
His father's lips trembled as he drew in a deep breath, then he returned his gaze to Nick's, his eyes wide and unspeakably sad. "When I heard him walk into the garage behind me ... " his father stopped, swallowed nervously, then took a deep breath " ... I thought he was you."
Chapter Eighteen
It was like a blow to the stomach. Nick couldn't breathe.
His father stood crying, explaining, but Nick couldn't quite hear, absorb, think.
"I didn't know what I was doing, son. I was angry, upset, out of my head. I didn't think, I didn't plan, I just ... did it. And then, and then .. ."
Nick heard his own whispered words. "You thought it was me." Me you were hitting, me you wanted to hurt, me you didn't love. Davy was innocent. And I was guilty. It was meant for me.
"Please forgive me, please understand, I wasn't in my right mind, I was just striking out at the nearest thing. I never thought about what I was doing, was just in a rage, just ... "
The words faded off, and somewhere along the way, his father had dropped to his knees, his face covered with tears. Nick felt out of place, out of time, like the moment didn't quite exist, like his body wasn't his own. He couldn't be here anymore, couldn't stand to look at this groveling man one more second. He'd heard all he needed to, all he could bear to. He turned and walked out.
Long, quick strides led him down the breezeway, out into a pouring rain he hardly felt. He'd ridden his motorcycle, but wouldn't have bothered with the helmet except he had no place to carry it otherwise. He was tempted to knock it to the broken asphalt and speed off, but even now, he remembered it'd been expensive and that the Armstrong's had learned not to waste things, not to throw things away, that money was precious and tight.
A minute later, he flew down the road with no thought for the speed limit, barely aware he'd pulled out in front of a car other than the dim memory of a horn sounding as he'd left the Sea Shanties' parking lot. The hard rain bit into his bare arms like tiny pellets, yet he ignored it, racing down the shiny slick road toward nowhere.
He'd done that after they'd come from the hospital, too, he recalled. Davy had still been there, but they'd gone home to get some sleep. Nick had opened the car door and, without a word to anyone, he'd just started running through the balmy Florida night, down the street, out onto the main road. He must've run for miles without ever stopping, ever slowing down, without even knowing why. He'd returned to the house very late, having walked the whole way back. It'd been quiet, his father and Elaine asleep, and no one had ever asked him about it.
No one ever asked anyone anything in their house and, because of it, Nick had spent twenty years not knowing he'd been the real target, not knowing Davy had only been an innocent bystander. Davy had saved
Nick's life by walking into that garage. And he'd lost Davy's by not putting away a baseball bat.
The bright lights of a liquor store lit the wet night and lured him impulsively into the empty lot Place looked like a shit-hole; no wonder he'd never even noticed it before, no wonder no one else was buying booze here tonight. I bet Davy's noticed it. I bet I could ask him about it tomorrow, could say, "Hey, you know that little liquor store on Alt 19, yellow sign, red letters?" and Davy would say, "Yeah," without missing a beat.
He stepped in from the rain, soaked to the skin, took his helmet off and caught sight of a redhead in her mid-thirties behind the counter, eyeing him. Pearl Jam's "Jeremy" came from a radio to her right, its wrenching notes slicing into Nick when he needed it least. The woman lifted a cigarette to her lips and gave him a doubtful look. "No night to be out on your Harley, cowboy."
He didn't answer, just headed to the shelves, out of her sight, and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Plunking it on the counter, he reached for his wallet and threw a soggy twenty down beside it. Smoke mixed with the musky scent of her perfume as she rang up the sale.
She pressed his change into his palm, slowly, deliberately. He noticed long, red, killer nails. "You okay?" she asked.
He reluctantly raised his eyes to hers, wondering how broken he looked, wondering if he'd been crying and if it showed, or if it just looked like rain running down his face. "Fine."
"You don't look fine, sugar." She tilted her head, flashing suggestive green eyes. "You need some company? Besides that bottle, I mean?"
His mind flashed on what he'd told Lauren just last night, about having sex to dull the pain. Sometimes it was like this, an available woman when he was hurting inside, someone nameless, faceless, someplace to spill himself, then walk away. Other times it was a little less tragic-some girl he knew, no specific pain other than the general one that always lived inside
him, something to do, someplace to be, something to take him away from reality for a little while.
He kept his eyes locked on the redhead the whole time, and she probably figured he was considering the offer. Yet he never answered, finally just picking up the thin brown bag and walking out the door.
He sat down on his bike, uncapped the whiskey, and took a long drink. It scalded his throat and warmed him deep inside. the heat spreading through his chest, arms, gut. Heat ... that's always how he thought of what he and Lauren shared when they were gazing at each other, wanting each other, having each other. This heat was so much emptier.
"Sugar." He looked up to see the redhead peeking out the door. "Come in from out of the rain."
"Can't," he said. Then he looked at the bottle in his hand, and lowered it to the cracked wet blacktop. After shoving his helmet back on, he revved the bike and took off again, headed toward Lauren's and leaving the Jack behind as the victim of another impulsive decision. Turning to Lauren was a better alternative than turning to booze like his father always had. The redhead was right; he needed company. Just not hers.
He sped all the way to Bayview Drive, even ran a red light when he saw nothing coming. The rain pummeled him, but he didn't feel it anymore. When he reached
Lauren's doorstep, he leaned on the doorbell until he heard her scurrying to answer.
Her jaw dropped when she saw him; he could only imagine what he looked like by now. Her beautiful lips trembled. "What's wrong, Nick? What happened?"
He swallowed back the lump in his throat, but his voice came out broken. "He thought it was me."
"What?"
It was a struggle to speak. "When he hit Davy, he thought it was me. Meant it to be me."
Lauren's blue eyes went wide as she lifted one hand to cover her mouth. "Oh God. Come in." Reaching for his arm, she drew him in out of the rain.
When Nick woke the next morning, Lauren's arms curled warm around him. They lay in her bed, and he wore only underwear. They hadn't had sex, but he remembered her peeling off his wet clothes, wrapping a thick towel around him. He remembered her kissing him. his cheek, his brow, and he remembered kissing her back, warm and deep and hard, because sometimes words still remained much harder to come by than kisses, and each had taken him a little farther away from his father's apartment.
He was glad they hadn't had sex, because sex with Lauren had never been about escaping pain, not once, not the first time, and not even the last time, after dinner at Elaine's. Even when he hadn't wanted it to be about anything good, anything emotional, being with Lauren had always held that-emotion. Always.
Now the sun broke through her half-moon window, and he knew she'd held him all night long. The silk of her pajamas rubbed slick against his skin as she shifted to look into his eyes. "Hey," she said quietly. It made him think of his mother, of the soft, loving tone she'd used when be was sick, or sad.
"Hey." He met her gaze, but it wasn't easy. He'd never been good at letting his vulnerabilities show.
"Sleep okay?" He nodded.
"Pancakes today?" She smiled hopefully. "Technically, I think it's your turn to make breakfast, but I'll cut you a break." "No. Don't go yet." Vulnerabilities aside, it just felt too damn good to have her pressed against him. When she gave him a questioning look, he said, "I'd rather starve than let you go right now."
All amusement faded from her eyes. "Can you ever forgive me, Nick?"
He shook his head in confusion. "For what, Princess?"
"I never should have suggested you talk to your dad." "No, I'm glad I finally know the truth. God knows it was time."
She stroked his hair. "How are you?" she asked, her expression more probing than the words, and he began to recall more things he'd said to her last night, about blaming himself for Davy's whole life, saying he'd never forgive himself, and why couldn't he have just put the damn bat away? His father's rage, of course, had been about far more than a bat, but that had been the thing to set him off. She'd said calm, soothing things, but he didn't know what, hadn't quite heard, although he knew that she'd cried, and he'd cried, and he'd just kept saying to her, insisting, "I don't cry. Inever cry," because he couldn't quite believe he was doing it in front of her.
He tried to formulate an answer for her. "Better than last night," was the best he could come up with.
"That's something." She attempted a smile.
"It's just an old hurt turned a new way, that's all. Digging into me deeper than before. and maybe it always will now-but I'll survive."
"I want you to do more than just survive, Nick." She sounded worried.
"Come here." He shifted to pull her into his arms, lowering a kiss to the ridge of her breast where it curved up from the silk. ''I'll be fine." She would help him be fine. He didn't say that part, but he knew it. Just having her to turn to, having her hold him through the night she saw things in him, made him see things in him, that he'd never have seen on his own. Lauren got dressed, then grabbed Nick's wrists and pulled him up from the bed. It was nearly noon and he hadn't budged, which was understandable, but she thought it was time. "We're going out for brunch."
"Brunch?" He gave her a skeptical look.
"You know, late breakfast, early lunch. They have a lovely brunch at the Yellow Hen."
"The Yellow Hen, huh?"
She knew he drove past the quaint Victorian house turned-restaurant probably every day of his life, but had probably never once stopped there. She nodded, then pulled him toward the shower. "I'll grab your clothes from the dryer, then we can go." While Nick was in the shower. the phone rang; her dad called to invite her to an impromptu party at his house that night. "I thought it would be smart to get everyone back in good spirits after this Phil fiasco, show them all is well at Ash Builders." "It's a good idea, but I won't be able to make it, Dad. Sorry." She knew her response threw Henry off, yet she hadn't even considered accepting.
''You can bring Nick, introduce him around," he replied. A nice thought, but one Lauren wanted to save for sometime when she and Nick would both be more in the mood. "I think it's important for you to be there," he added. "After all, you're central to our future and getting more so every day."
She sighed. ''I'm afraid this weekend just isn't good. Another time, okay?"
Seldom had she heard her father sound more baffled than when he finally said, "What's so important that it can't wait?" Taking a deep breath, she decided it was time she finally tell her dad the truth and take matters in hand. "Dad, you know how important the company is to me, and you know I'll always work hard and do my best for Ash Builders, but ... " "Yes?"
"I'm afraid your parties are sometimes a little wild for my taste, just like Phil's. And frankly, I think we should consider making any get-together associated with Ash a little more professional in nature in the future. For the same reason we didn't want to let this business with Phil reach the media. It's important to protect our image, even among our employees." Her father stayed silent a moment, before finally admitting, "You probably make a good point."
"I think so, too. Besides which, you can't expect anyone, including me, to feel obligated to come to a party with so little notice. So while I think it's great you're trying to boost morale, and I love you and the company as much as ever, I won't be there tonight."
After a short hesitation, her father laughed. "I think you just put me in my place, sweet pea."
"Dad, it's not like that. It's just ... time I speak up for myself, say what's on my mind. Otherwise, how will I ever run the company?"
On the other end of the line. Henry Ash chuckled.
"Point well taken, honey. I won't expect to see you at the party and ... well, perhaps the next time we get together. you can outline for me what you think constitutes a professional event."
She smiled. "I'll be happy to."
As they started to get off the phone, Lauren said, "Dad, one more thing. About Nick. Thank you for ... accepting him as part of my life."
"As he pointed out to me, I don't think I had much choice." His tone remained lighthearted, but was under laid with the long, sad history between him and John Armstrong.