Man With A Miracle
Muriel Jensen
Sometimes a girl needs a miracle…Beazie Deadham is alone and on the run. She witnessed the murder of her boss in an underground parking lot in Boston, and accepted an incriminating tape from him, which he told her to deliver to "Evan" in Maple Hill. Now the perpetrators of the crime are after her as well as the tape.This man has one!Evan Braga has moved to quiet Maple Hill, Massachusetts, to escape his past as a big-city cop. He's also trying to sort out the guilt he feels over his brother's death. He's not looking for all the trouble that gorgeous redhead Beazie Deadham drops on his doorstep. Especially once he discovers that Beazie was mixed up with his brother, and his brother might have been mixed up with the tape Beazie's trying so hard to unload.But when the Boston thugs track Beazie down, Evan–and his family, who show up unexpectedly at Christmas–would go to the ends of the earth to protect her!
“What are you doing?”
He grabbed her under the arms and tried to haul her up. She struggled against him and they both went down. This time her head collided with his arm as she fell, dislodging her watch cap. What he saw in the glow of the headlights made him stare in shock and anger.
Her luxurious red hair had been cut off so that it was barely longer than his, and it was…purple.
“I’m leaving!” she said, swinging at him with her plastic bag.
“Beazie!” Her name escaped him in a kind of gasp. He couldn’t believe she’d done it, though he realized it was probably her most recognizable feature.
He forced his attention away from the atrocity perpetrated against her hair, handed her the hat so she could put it back on and made himself focus on the more important issue.
“To go where?”
“Anywhere a cab will take me!” she replied. “I got the tape to you, so my job is done.”
“Beazie, your life is in danger.”
“Not anymore. Now you have the tape….”
Dear Reader,
Happy Holidays from Astoria, Oregon, where it rains at Christmas rather than snows. Still, the Christmas spirit is alive in our hearts and visible everywhere. Though Astoria does not have a town square, it resembles my description of Maple Hill, with Christmas lights, garlands stretched across the main street from sidewalk to sidewalk and wreaths circling the old-fashioned globe streetlights. One Christmas bonus Astoria has that’s missing in Maple Hill is a parade of boats strung with lights from stem to stern.
In the light of day, Astoria is a very different setting from Maple Hill. We’re positioned at the mouth of the Columbia River, on a fairly steep slope that runs down to the water. Many artists and writers live here, claiming the river to be a creative source.
I love it here. Rain never drowns out our enthusiasm. In fact, we have umbrella parades to honor it. For the most part, people are warm and loving, and because we’re a small town, we’re a community of friends. That warmth supports and sustains me every day, and makes it easy to sit in my second-floor office in the middle of a monsooning February and create a Christmas atmosphere.
I wish you all the blessings of the season, and your own personal Astoria.
Muriel
Man with a Miracle
Muriel Jensen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PROLOGUE
June 10, 2001
EVAN BRAGA WIPED HIS FACE with a towel as he hurried into the locker room of the Hatfield Gym, remembering belatedly that he’d promised to trade shifts with Halloran tonight. Someone else would have to host the Sunday-night poker game of the Boston PD’s Cambridge Division. He went to the bench where he’d left his gym bag and stopped in confusion when he found nothing there. Then he spotted the bag under the bench and yanked it out. Ripping open the zipper, he pushed his sweatshirt aside and reached in for his cell phone.
His hand stopped. His heart stopped. His brain stopped. He was paralyzed.
Only his eyes seemed to be working, and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Cash. Lots of it, neatly bundled in banded packets. One-hundred dollar bundles. Five-hundred dollar bundles.
He felt his mouth open, but no sound came out.
He was alone in the quiet room. He could hear the ticking clock, the sound of someone in the showers on the other side of the wall, shouts and laughter from the gym floor.
He had zipped the bag closed and was trying to figure out what in the hell was going on, when he saw the plastic tag looped around the handle of the bag. New England Insurance, it read. This was Blaine’s bag. Their parents had given them identical gym bags and matching sweatshirts last Christmas, but his younger brother was the one usually mixing them up—not Evan.
His heart lurched uncomfortably. He knew Blaine and Sheila had been having financial problems, but what was his brother doing with banded bills in large denominations, in his insurance business?
He felt a sort of fraternal panic, and the only thought in his head that made sense told him to get the bag and Blaine out of there as fast as he could.
Jerking open his locker, he threw on a pair of blue sweats, grasped the handle of the bag firmly and headed for the gym.
Blaine was chasing across the court in a pickup basketball game, then leaped to block a shot. In an instant of detachment, Evan noticed that Blaine was leaner than he was, his body more artfully graceful than simply strong. Even as a kid, he’d had the looks, the charm, the charisma that drew people to him. He’d always been the golden child, but unfortunately had never realized it and had taken the easy way out of everything.
Watching out for Blaine had been Evan’s job since he was six years old, and it had taken a lot of his time. But he’d done it well. Apparently the fact that his brother had a wife, two little sons and an insurance franchise didn’t mean Evan could stop watching Blaine. Not if that bag of money was any indication.
While another player shot from the free-throw line, Blaine caught Evan’s eye and tossed him a grin. Then he noticed the bag in Evan’s hand and went deathly pale.
Evan started for the door. Blaine ran in his wake, his friends calling after him to come back.
“Sorry, guys,” Blaine shouted over his shoulder. “Uh…family dinner. See you Wednesday.” He chased Evan out of the building and across the parking lot to Evan’s old Austin-Healy convertible.
“You have to put the bag back!” Blaine said urgently, standing by the passenger side door as Evan leaped over his door and into the car.
“Get in!” Evan commanded, stuffing the bag into the narrow area behind the seat.
“Listen to me.”
“Get in!”
“Evan, that money—”
“That money’s going to be returned,” Evan said, starting the engine, prepared to leave whether Blaine climbed in or not. “I don’t even want to know what you’re doing with it—I’m just sure it can’t be good. Now, get in or I’m turning it in to the closest police station. You’ll go away for a long time.”
Blaine swung his legs over the door and slid down into the seat. “You’re always so sure you know everything.”
Evan eased out of the parking lot, then roared away down the long country road. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he said. “I’d be happy to hear that.”
“You’re wrong. It isn’t stolen, as I’m sure you suspect. It’s…it’s borrowed.”
Evan gave him a quick side-glance. “From whom?”
Blaine sighed and ran a hand over his face. “From my holding account,” he said finally. “I’m going to put it back.”
“Blaine—” Evan began.
“Oh, relax!” Blaine shouted at him. “It’s a gray area, okay? It’s the insurance company’s account, but it’s under my control. As long as I put the money back—”
“How are you going to do that, when you had to borrow it in the first place?” Evan slowed as he came to an intersection with a narrow side road, then picked up speed again, feeling an urgent need to return the money before someone found out there was trouble—for Blaine, his wife, his kids, their parents…
“That’s none of your business.” Blaine tried to reach behind him for the bag. “This is none of your business.”
“No, it’s your business!” Evan accused. “Sheila and the boys are your business! Did you give them any thought when you did this? What’s it for? The boat’s not big enough? You need a second summer home to attract more clients? Another classic Jag? Sheila seems perfectly happy…”
“Yeah, well, my girlfriend’s expensive.” Grabbing the bag with both hands, Blaine swung it onto his lap. “Now stop the car. I’ve got to go back! The bag has to be where I left it or I’m—”
“We’re not going back. You’re going to redeposit the money and I’ll help you find another—”
As they approached another intersection, Blaine reached for the steering wheel. Evan tried to push him away, and caught sight of a big black Dodge Ram coming quickly down the side road. Completely unaware, Blaine pulled at the wheel, and with a screech of tires, the Austin-Healy headed straight toward the truck.
Evan shouted, but the squeal of brakes drowned out the sound. There was a bone-shattering impact, the grinding whine of tearing metal, then blackness.
January 4, 2002
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND why you feel you have to go.” Alice Turner, Evan’s mother, followed him from the kitchen to the driveway, where he packed two suitcases into the back of a brand-new white Safari already loaded with boxes, an apartment-size refrigerator and a television. She’d said that several times a day for the two weeks since he’d made the decision.
He couldn’t tell her the truth. “I just have to, Mom,” he said, taking a plastic-wrapped stack of blankets and a pillow from his stepfather, who’d followed them out. “I appreciate all you and Dad and Sheila have done for me since I got out of the hospital, but…”
“You think we blame you,” his mother accused, tears spilling from her grieving brown eyes. She folded her arms pugnaciously.
“No.” He avoided her eyes as he found a place for the blankets on top of a box. They didn’t blame him, and Sheila didn’t blame him. In fact, they’d sat with him every day for the long three months it took to heal his broken legs, his right arm, his pelvis that resulted from his ejection from the car upon impact. They’d helped with his physical therapy, then brought him home to complete his recovery at his parents’ place. His sister-in-law, Sheila, and his two nephews, Mark, 6, and Matthew, 4, had visited often, bringing him cookies, and crayon artwork for his room.
But Evan saw the grief they tried to hide from him, the loss in their eyes even when they smiled and encouraged him. Their suffering compounded his own sense of failure as a brother and a son, until he felt he couldn’t stay another moment. He had to spare all of them the constant reminder that he survived the crash and Blaine died, and he had to find another way to go on, before despair overtook him.
The only good thing to come out of the accident was that it put an end to the issue of the borrowed money. The car had been incinerated and the money burned up. Blaine must have sufficiently hidden his “loan” in the books, because when the franchise was purchased in August, an audit revealed nothing untoward. Or maybe Blaine had some fail-safe method of payback that he hadn’t had a chance to explain before the accident.
Whatever the reason, Evan was grateful that neither his parents nor Sheila had any idea Blaine had done anything criminal.
“I just have to get my life together again, Mom,” he explained, hugging her, “and I can’t do it here. A company in Maple Hill advertised for a housepainter. I love that kind of work and I’m pretty good at it. Maple Hill is close enough that I can come home regularly to visit, and you can come and see me.”
“Are you going to be happy painting houses?” his stepfather, Barney, asked as he wrapped his arms around Evan. “You were such a good cop.”
“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Evan assured him. Barney Turner had been his father since he was four, and he’d never made Evan feel less important or less loved than Blaine.
“You know who to call if you aren’t.”
“I do.”
“Mark and Mattie will miss you,” his mother prodded as they followed him around to the driver’s side.
“Alice, don’t torture the boy,” Barney chided. “He knows they’ll miss him. He spent all day with them yesterday, explaining things. They’ll be fine, and he’ll be fine.”
His mother gave his father a reproachful look. “Men are always fine because they’re the ones off on adventures. Women are the ones who stay behind and worry.”
Barney squeezed her shoulders. “He’s going to Maple Hill, Allie, not to war. Good luck, son.”
Evan hugged his mother again, climbed in behind the wheel and drove away.
CHAPTER ONE
December 9, 2002
EVAN IGNORED THE PAIN in his right leg as he ran around the track of Maple Hill High with three of his friends. He and Hank Whitcomb, Bart Megrath and Cameron Trent formed an irregular line across the lanes as snow fell steadily in large flakes.
“What? Are we training for the Winter Olympics?” Bart asked Hank, his breath puffing out ahead of him. Bart was a lawyer, and much preferred the comforts of his home or office to the uncompromising cold of western Massachusetts in the winter.
“Can’t be,” Cam put in, pulling a blue wool watch cap a little lower over his ears. “Track-and-field is a summer event. Hank just likes to torture us because he’s our boss. Thank God it was icy at the lake, or he’d have us running there, with the wind-chill factor making it even colder than it is here.”
“Hank’s not my boss,” Bart corrected.
“No, but he’s your brother-in-law,” Evan put in. After eleven months on the job with Hank and Cam, and working on community projects with the two of them and Bart, he was comfortable in their company. He considered himself fortunate to have their friendship, and thought often how much brighter his life had become in the past year. “If you don’t get your exercise, he’ll report you to Haley like he did last time, and she’ll tell the ladies at Perk Avenue not to serve you those double mochas and cream horns anymore.”
“That was a joke,” Bart said.
“You didn’t think it was funny.”
Haley was Bart’s wife, Hank’s sister, and the publisher of the Maple Hill Mirror.
Bart laughed. “You’re just being superior, Evan,” he said, “because you’re still a bachelor. Wait till my mother-in-law fixes you up with some pretty young thing who makes you lose your senses and forget your backbone. You won’t be able to laugh at us anymore.”
Addie Whitcomb was a confirmed matchmaker. Evan had skillfully avoided her machinations so far, but she was growing more determined all the time.
“I’m not laughing,” he insisted, even as he tamped his amusement. “I just think it’s interesting that the town’s leading attorney—” he pointed a gloved finger at Bart “—the head of the much-acclaimed Whitcomb’s Wonders—” he indicated Hank, who modestly inclined his head “—and Cam, the Wonders’ brilliant plumber and my inspired partner in land development, can be so cowed by three of the town’s most beautiful and talented, but very small, women. Guys, come on. You’re whipped!”
His friends looked at one another, laughed and ran on, dragging him with them, apparently not offended.
“It’ll happen to you,” Cam warned.
“No,” he denied affably.
“That’s what I used to think,” Hank said with a knowing glance at him from beneath the bill of a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. “And look at me now.”
Hank’s wife, Jackie, was mayor of Maple Hill and the mother of four children, whom Hank had adopted.
“I like my privacy,” Evan insisted.
Cam laughed. “That’s what we all said. Prepare to kiss it goodbye, dude. You’re ripe.”
“Ripe?”
“Almost forty. Addie won’t be able to stand it. Even Haley, Jackie and Mariah are starting to plot.”
Cam’s wife, Mariah, a former dorm mother at the Maple Hill Manor Private School just outside of town, had charmed Cam into marrying her to provide a home for two of the school’s boarders, who suddenly had been without families. Five months later it had proven to be a good move for all of them.
“It’s not going to happen to me,” Evan said, seriousness creeping into his tone. He ignored the speculative looks his friends exchanged with one another. He hadn’t shared much about his past with his friends, though he trusted them all implicitly. It was just still too hard to give words to what had happened.
He’d told them he’d been a cop, and that he’d come to Maple Hill after an automobile accident that had almost disabled him. He said he’d come to rebuild his body in the fresh air, and to restore his spirit with the more relaxed pace of small-town life.
He’d joined St. Anthony’s Church, because after a month here, he still had too many memories and ghosts and needed desperately to be reminded that a power beyond his feeble abilities had charge of the world. And the Men’s Club gave him somewhere to go on weekends when his friends were involved with their families.
The church group was always raising money for the school, repairing or repainting it, or helping with some community project or other. Many of the men in the club were much older than he, but he liked their old-fashioned, curiously heroic way of thinking and their incisive senses of humor. They reminded him of Barney and eased his loneliness.
“Next year at this time,” Hank said, “when you’re married and expecting a baby, we’re going to remind you that you said that. Want to take bets on it, guys? Pick the month you think Evan bites the dust. Ten bucks. Winner buys everybody breakfast at the Barn.”
Evan ran in place, while the others stopped to exchange money and make their bets. “You’ll all owe me a meal when I remain a bachelor. Wait and see.”
They ignored him and conducted their business. Hank, who had faith in his mother, said she’d have Evan hooked by Valentine’s Day. Cam had been claimed in June and thought Evan would, too. Bart said that hurricane weather was powerful stuff and bet on August.
Evan put out his hand. “I’ll hold the money.”
Cam clutched the bills to his chest. “You’re one of the principals of the bet. You can’t hold the money.”
“I’ll give it to Jackie,” Hank said. “She can put it in the safe at City Hall.”
Evan shrugged nonchalantly as he continued to run in place. His leg was going to seize up if he didn’t. He needed a Jacuzzi and a Coffee Nudge. “You’re all going to be so embarrassed.”
They laughed in unison as they headed back to their cars. In five minutes they would reconvene at the Minuteman Bakery.
Evan stayed in his car an extra moment to massage his screaming thigh muscle, then joined his friends in the bakery’s corner booth. Someone had already poured his coffee and ordered his daily caramel-nut roll.
When he slipped in against the wall beside Cam, they were talking about the homeless shelter being built. As mayor, Jackie had helped solicit funds for the project and directed the construction.
The members of Whitcomb’s Wonders, a pool of craftsmen who could be hired at a moment’s notice for an hour or a year, had each worked on it at some point.
Evan had been painting and wallpapering at the shelter for weeks. All that remained to be done was the kitchen, and a second coat of paint applied to the common room. Jackie was hoping to see the shelter open on December twenty-third. With the advent of frigid weather, Father Chabot was sheltering the homeless in the basement of the church. There were several families, and everyone wanted to see them in more comfortable surroundings by Christmas.
“So, you’re okay to finish up by next week?” Hank asked Evan. Though they conducted their business over coffee and doughnuts, it was still business, and everyone’s attitude was a little more serious than earlier.
“Yes,” Evan replied. “Sooner if I can.”
“Don’t you and Cam have to get that office in your building finished this week?”
Evan nodded. “I’m doing that today and tomorrow. Unless you need me somewhere.”
“No. Nothing today. Some work at the Heritage Museum after the holidays.”
Evan and Cam’s first project together as Trent and Braga Development had been the purchase of the old Chandler Mill on the edge of town. Someone had made a halfhearted attempt to turn it into offices at one time, but the work was shoddy, clearly done by amateurs. Hank had once housed the offices of Whitcomb’s Wonders there, but had since moved the business into City Hall’s basement. Evan and Cam had torn down the old walls of the mill and hired Whitcomb’s Wonders to section off the first and second floors into eight large offices, and the third floor into two small apartments and two large ones.
The slow, easy approach they’d intended to take in readying the building for occupancy had gained momentum when a previous tenant, an accounting office, was happy about the renovation and eager to return—preferably between Christmas and the new year. Cam had promised the premises could be occupied on January second.
They had three more tenants eager to move in downstairs, and one waiting for a second-floor spot. It seemed that their development company was off to a good start.
Evan smiled to himself as he thought about how different his life was now from what it had been eighteen months ago. Then, he’d had morning coffee and pastries with scores of other cops in a squad room. He’d patrolled the city in a pattern that was often fairly routine, but could explode into periods of stress and danger that were sometimes energizing, sometimes terrifying. And he’d loved it.
Then he’d killed Blaine, and everything had changed. Well, over the past year he’d managed to accept that he hadn’t really killed him; Blaine had been struggling for the wheel at the time of impact. But that didn’t completely absolve Evan of blame. It was his fault Blaine had been in the car in the first place.
But he didn’t want to think about that right now. What he had here was good. Good friends, good coffee, rewarding work waiting for him. He missed his parents and Sheila and the boys, but he wasn’t up to seeing them yet. His mother had invited him for Thanksgiving, but he’d told her he had to work on the accountant’s office to have it ready in time. She’d sounded disappointed, but said merely that he had to plan to come home for Christmas.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to get out of that yet, but he intended to.
“You’re coming to the Wonders’ Christmas party?” Hank asked Evan as he consulted his watch. It was almost eight a.m., time for them to get to work. “Sunday afternoon. And since we’ll all be together, Jackie’s planning to hold a meeting about preparations for opening the shelter.” Jackie had found a willing group of volunteers in her husband’s friends.
“I’ve got to work on the—” Evan began.
“No, you don’t,” Cam interrupted. “We’ve got a couple of weeks before Harvey starts moving things in.”
“But the carpet’s got to go down.”
“That’ll take all of two hours. You’re just trying to get out of joining us.”
He was. Their warmth and camaraderie, while great on the job, was a little tough to take in their homes. It was a reminder of the family he just couldn’t bring himself to see again, and the family he’d never be able to build for himself.
“I told Brian you were coming,” Cam said, shamelessly forcing his hand. “The kid’s looking forward to seeing you.”
“And Mike was looking forward to talking to you about the Sox,” Bart told him. “Nobody else has the stats at his fingertips like you do.”
Hank slipped out of the booth. “Jackie wants you to bring salad. We’ll expect you at two o’clock.”
He conceded with a nod. “Okay. I’ll be there.”
The group dispersed. Evan bought a refill on his coffee and a few more doughnuts, then went out to the red Jeep the garage had lent him while they replaced the alternator on his van.
He missed his big vehicle. EVAN BRAGA, PAINTING, PART OF WHITCOMB’S WONDERS was now painted in red letters on its side. He felt a certain pride every time he looked at it. He’d managed to pull himself together in a year, and though he still had a lot of issues to deal with, he was making progress. Life was good.
He climbed into the Jeep, grateful to have wheels at all, put the coffee cup in the console, tossed the bag of doughnuts onto the passenger seat and headed for the mill.
His parking spot was around the back, where he and Cam kept an office that also served as a storage shed for tools and equipment. There was a lumpy old love seat in it that Bart and Haley had donated when they bought new furniture, and Evan wanted nothing more than to sit on it, drink his coffee and have another doughnut, before he applied the second coat of paint to the window frames and doors of the accounting office, then wallpapered the women’s bathroom.
Balancing doughnuts, coffee and the new roller handles he’d bought, he unlocked the door and pushed it open.
What he saw shocked him into stillness. He experienced a playback of that moment, a year and a half ago, when he’d opened the gym bag and found bundles of cash.
Only, this moment was potentially more dangerous. He was looking at the business end of the Louisville Slugger he kept on top of the bookshelf. Ready to swing it was a very disheveled young woman in a torn and dusty navy-blue suit and jacket and dress shoes. Dark red hair was piled in a messy bundle atop her head, and she looked pale and obviously terrified.
He assessed her calmly as his old training kicked in. She was average in height and slender, and even with a gun would have posed a negligible threat—if she’d been calm.
But she wasn’t. She looked exhausted, and her red-rimmed blue eyes said more clearly than words that she was on the brink of destruction—her own or someone else’s.
His presence seemed about to push her over the edge.
“Hi,” he said calmly, and stayed right where he was.
HI? BEAZIE DEADHAM thought hysterically. He’d killed her boss and chased her across the commonwealth of Massachusetts, and all he could say when they finally stood face-to-face, was Hi?
She was going to lose it. She could feel it happening. She was shaking so hard she could hear her own teeth chattering.
Things were beginning to reel around her. She’d been up all night with nothing to eat or drink. She’d tried to close her eyes during the four-hour drive in the back of the moving van, but each time, she’d seen her boss’s broken body crumpled on the concrete floor of the parking structure, life ebbing out of him as she ran and knelt beside him. She’d seen the red SUV with the gunman in it rev its motor.
“Beazie,” Gordon had gasped, and clutched her hand. “Evans…” Blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. “Take it to…Evans. Maple Hill… No police.”
Barely able to hear him, she leaned over him, her ear to his lips.
“No one…else,” he said in a barely audible croak. “Evans…Maple Hill.”
It was only then that she noticed he’d pressed something into her hand: a miniature tape cassette like the kind in an answering machine.
This wasn’t happening to her, she thought in a panic now, dragging herself back to the moment and the man who stood across from her. Although her arms were aching from holding the bat, she didn’t dare lower the weapon. This guy had killed her boss, Gordon Hathaway. Gentle Gordon, the man who’d given her an advance on her paycheck when she’d hired on, because she’d explained she was really broke; who’d given her a bonus when she’d reorganized the filing system; who’d been kind and funny and more of a friend than an employer.
“Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here?” the man asked in a quiet, rumbly voice from across the room. In his large hands were two long poles, a paper bag and a cup of coffee. His white pants and sweatshirt were both covered with flecks of paint in assorted colors, and a red scarf patterned with black moose and bears was wrapped around his neck.
It encouraged her that she could see so clearly, considering the way her eyes burned. Spots had been floating in and out of her vision, but they were gone now. Still, she felt vaguely nauseated.
The man’s hair was dark blond and slightly curly, his eyes brown and calm. He apparently didn’t consider her a threat. Well, she’d show him! Nobody killed people she knew and got away with it.
But what did she do with him, now that she had him at bay? Gordon had said no police. She could only conclude that meant someone in the police department was involved in his death. But did he mean in Boston or in Maple Hill? Oh God.
“You murdered Gordon Hathaway!” she accused sternly, hoping she looked like a controlled woman with a plan, even though she didn’t have one. “Did you think you’d get away with that?”
Those calm brown eyes looked blank, then he blinked and said, “Pardon me?”
“You killed Gordon Hathaway!” she shrieked at him. The spots were back and she was starting to feel as though she was about to explode. All effort to remain calm disintegrated. “And you’ve been after me ever since!”
“Why do you think that?” he asked.
“Because I saw you! I saw your red SUV in the parking garage when that guy leaned out and shot Gordon! I saw you come into my apartment building, looking for me!”
“You didn’t see me.”
“I did! And just now, I watched you pull up here!”
“Look,” he said in that patronizing tone. “I’m just going to put this stuff down, okay?”
“Don’t think I won’t smash you.”
“It’s okay,” he said, easing the poles into the corner near the door.
She watched him as he placed the small bag and cup of coffee on the edge of the desk beside him. He looked up at her and noticed her licking her dry lips. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
He reached slowly for the bag and tossed it to the love seat near where she stood. “There’s a maple bar, a cinnamon twist and a caramel-nut roll in there. Help yourself.”
Without moving her eyes from him, she pointed the bat with one hand and unrolled the top of the bag with the other. She reached inside and withdrew the first thing her fingers touched. It was the maple bar. With a shaky hand she brought it to her mouth and took a large bite.
It tasted like ambrosia.
Fortified by that single bite, she indicated the coffee cup with the bat, which was getting heavy. “Move the coffee to the edge of the desk.”
Certain she had him at least concerned, if not intimidated, she was surprised and dismayed when he grinned.
“Sorry. That’s only my second cup this morning, and I’ve got a big day ahead of me. If you want it, you have to take it from me.”
Beazie figured she must have looked disappointed, because his grin widened and he said, “Oh, all right.” Reaching for a pottery cup on the desk, he poured half of the coffee into it, then held the paper cup out to her. “Here you go.”
She’d never wanted anything more in her life, but she didn’t trust him. Apparently aware of that, he put it on the edge of the desk nearest her and took several steps back.
She put the maple bar down, reached for the cup and took a careful swallow. The coffee was hot, rich and absolutely delicious.
“I’m driving a Jeep on loan from the garage that’s fixing my van,” he said, sitting on the desk and drinking from his pottery cup. “Not an SUV.”
As she lowered her own cup, she felt an instant’s uncertainty.
“Where did this murder take place?” he asked.
She sidled toward the window near his desk, so that she could see the parking area. “In Boston,” she replied.
“Well, I haven’t been to Boston in almost a year. In fact, I’ve hardly left Maple Hill. So you have me confused with someone else.”
Rising up on tiptoe, she spotted the top of the red car, but couldn’t see enough to be sure it was the SUV. She’d watched him pull in, she reminded herself, and she’d been sure then. Of course, she’d been dealing with those spots.
He took a cordless phone from the top of the desk and tried to hand it to her. “Call the police,” he said. “They can tell you who I am.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” she said with new resolve, polishing off the last of the coffee. “Gordon told me no police. Did you buy them off?”
He put a hand to his face and took a deep breath. “Why don’t we call you a doctor?” he asked finally, preparing to stab out a telephone number. “You look as though you’re on the verge of collapse. Sit down and I’ll—”
She made a desperate grab for the phone, thinking that he’d probably just get a doctor to sedate her or something, then they’d throw her in that beautiful lake behind the…
She couldn’t quite round out the thought.
Everything went red. Not black, but a sort of rosy red. She felt hot suddenly, as though a prickly woollen blanket were inching up her body. With a strange sort of detachment, she watched as the coffee cup fell out of her hands and the bat dangled from her fingers.
The man sprang off the desk to take the bat from her, and as she sank into a warm, fuzzy stupor, she expected him to hit her with it.
But he put it aside and reached out for her as her knees buckled. She expected a collision with the floor, but the last thing she knew was the cradle of a strong pair of arms.
CHAPTER TWO
EVAN CARRIED THE YOUNG WOMAN to the love seat, put two fingertips to her throat, and felt great relief when he sensed the tap of a steady pulse. He retrieved a ratty but clean blanket he kept in the closet. Her skin was icy to the touch. It certainly lent credence to her story that she’d been on the run all night.
Then he reached for the phone to dial 911. But remembering her fear, and her odd remark about the police being in collusion with the killer, he changed his mind.
He couldn’t imagine what had happened to her, but she seemed more genuinely fearful than crazy. Something or someone had driven her to this state. Someone with a red SUV.
He called Randy Sanford, who was an EMT and worked on Whitcomb’s Wonders’ janitorial crew in his spare time. Evan explained briefly about not wanting to call an ambulance.
“My bag’s at Medics Rescue,” Randy said. “You should call—”
“Just come!” Evan demanded. He’d pressed the speaker button so that he had his hands free to make a pot of coffee for the woman. “I don’t think it’s life or death, but please. Just get over here.”
“On my way,” Randy promised.
Once the coffee was dripping, Evan went to see what else he could do to make the woman comfortable. He noticed that her head rested at an odd angle on the pillow he’d propped under her, and tried to readjust it. Then he realized that the problem was a dirty, tattered piece of elasticized fabric wrapped around her hair. He worked gently to remove it, and combed his fingers through the dark burnished mass.
As he wrapped the blanket more tightly around her, he wondered once again what had happened to her. She had a pretty oval face, though even in her unconscious state, she frowned. Her nose was small, her chin slightly pointed, and her long eyelashes were a shade darker than her hair. If she wore makeup, it had worn off in her ordeal, and a spray of freckles stood out on the bridge of her nose and across her cheekbones.
When she stirred fitfully, he put a hand to her shoulder, telling her it was all right, she was safe.
She moaned in response, but her eyes remained closed.
BEAZIE WAS LEANING OVER Gordon in horrified disbelief as his life drained away.
She heard the door of the SUV open. The driver, a young man in a fleece-lined jacket, was about to step out, but the elevator doors parted and a throng of laughing, talking commuters spilled out. As soon as they noticed her sheltering Gordon’s supine body, they hurried toward her, one of them already on his cell phone. A young woman pushed Beazie aside, telling her she was a nurse.
The door closed on the red SUV and it sped away.
The ambulance arrived first, and the paramedics covered Gordon with a sheet. As soon as Beazie saw the police car pull up, she panicked and slipped away unnoticed in the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Gordon had pleaded “No police!” She couldn’t risk them finding the tape on her.
Once she was out on the main street, she hailed a cab and headed straight for her apartment. Everything there was just as she’d left it that morning, and she experienced a strange feeling of unreality. She had to have imagined the murder of her boss. That kind of thing didn’t happen to a nice, middle-class girl from Buffalo.
Then she found the tape, still clutched so tightly in her hand it left marks. She walked to the window to examine it more closely and see if it was labeled.
Instead, her attention was caught by the bright red SUV parking in front of her building. Three men got out. One stayed with the car while the other two hurried inside.
Her flight-or-fight response kicked in and adrenaline raged through her body as she raced out of her apartment and scrambled down the fire escape. Once on the ground, she fled down an alley to the next block, and kept running as darkness fell.
She was cold, she was hungry. In her panic, she hadn’t thought to grab her purse. How was she going to get to Maple Hill without cash or credit cards? Then she came upon the gaping rear doors of a moving van and heard the driver and his assistant talking about their next stop in Springfield. She remembered from visiting a friend there and antiquing through the area that it was just a short distance from Maple Hill, a quaint little town at the foot of the Berkshires. Without a second’s thought, she climbed into the truck.
For several hours she huddled in the cold darkness of the moving van, wedged between a mattress and an easy chair. When at last they stopped, the assistant opened the doors, and she got ready to do some fast explaining. But the driver shouted a question and the assistant headed back to the cab.
Her body stiff with cold, Beazie struggled down from the van and headed toward the well-lit main street, wondering how on earth she would get to Maple Hill. Down a little side lane she noticed the shipping and receiving doors of a bakery wide-open, so she slipped inside, drawn by the warmth and the light. Beyond a wall of windows, big ovens were being filled with racks of something she couldn’t quite identify.
The aroma was torturous. She’d skipped breakfast, had been too busy for lunch and was now feeling weak and dizzy. Unfortunately, all of the bakery’s product seemed to be on the other side of the window.
She shrank back into the shadows as a tall boy in a white uniform and headphones came out another door carrying a large rack. He walked out in to the lane, headed for a truck with Palermo Bakery emblazoned on the side. After sliding the rack of bread in the back of the truck, he went to the driver’s door and climbed in. Taking her courage in hand, Beazie raced over and asked if he was going anywhere near Maple Hill.
He yanked off the headphones. “What’s that?”
“Are you going anywhere near Maple Hill?” she asked again.
He looked her over and smiled. “Sure am, dudette,” he said. “That’s my first stop. You need a ride?”
She nodded, grateful that he was friendly and amenable, if not the brightest light on the field. She wanted to add, Yes, and a dozen doughnuts, please, but she said instead, “I’m looking for someone named Evans there. Do you know anyone by that name?”
He nodded. “I do. Hop in, time’s a-wastin’.”
She couldn’t believe her good fortune. She closed her eyes against a thumping headache and was mercifully ignored while the young man sang loudly to the tunes from his Walkman. Within half an hour, he pulled off the road and into the parking lot of what looked like an old mill. It was now about four a.m.
“You’ll find him in that office,” he said, pointing to the far end of the building. “But probably not for a couple of hours.”
Beazie was also grateful that the driver’s youth and “duh-ness” prevented him from arguing about leaving her on what was now a dark and lonely road.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, and with a heartfelt “thank you” leaped out onto the parking lot and headed straight for a garden bench under a floodlight.
The sign on the building said Trent and Braga Development. Trent and Braga. Beazie turned to the truck, but the driver was already back on the road and almost out of sight.
She hoped this wasn’t simply the boy’s idea of a joke on a disheveled “dudette” and that there really was someone named Evans here.
Tired as she was, she decided to try the windows and was deliriously relieved to find one slightly open. She pushed it open even farther and climbed inside. The smell of sealant was strong, and she imagined that was why the window had been left ajar.
In the glow of the floodlight, the room appeared to be large and empty, and she made her way carefully to a door, which led to a hallway. Every other room along the hallway was also empty, except for one at the end that appeared to be a sort of office-storage area. And it had a sofa!
The room wobbled as she stumbled to the lumpy couch. She would lie down for a minute; then, as soon as the world straightened again, she’d look for something to eat. If this place was used as an office, there might be cookies or chips stashed in a drawer. She closed her eyes, quickly reviewed all the horrible things that had happened to her over the past sixteen hours, and reaffirmed her determination to grant Gordon his dying wish. He’d been a good friend to her, and she felt bound to help him in the only way she had left. She fell asleep with tears on her cheek.
THE WOMAN WAS STILL UNCONSCIOUS five minutes later when Randy arrived, ripping off his jacket. He was tall and dark-featured, with what Evan had heard the Wonders Women, his wife and his friends’ wives, refer to as heartthrob good looks. Randy never seemed to be aware of them himself.
Evan pointed him to the sofa and Randy sat on the edge of it and leaned over the woman, putting his cheek to her mouth and nose to check for breathing.
“What’s her name?” he asked Evan as he straightened up. He put his index and second fingers to the pulse at her throat.
“I don’t know,” Evan replied.
“Pulse is a little thready.” Randy shook her lightly. “Hey, pretty lady. Can you hear me?” he asked loudly. “Hello! Can you hear me? Can you talk?” He gave her another gentle shake. “What did you say happened to her?”
Evan went to the cupboard for coffee cups. “I’m not sure. She said something about seeing her boss killed, then being chased all night long. She started out in Boston.”
“How’d she get here?”
“Don’t know. I unlocked my door to find her threatening me with a bat. She looked pretty desperate.”
“No purse?”
“Uh…don’t think so.” He left the small table with the coffeepot, to check the corners of the office. He searched behind a stack of boxes, then under the love seat. Nothing. “No purse,” he confirmed.
“No coat, either?”
“No.”
The woman stirred as though uncomfortable, then moaned.
Randy lightly placed his hand above her waist. “It’s all right,” he said. “Can you hear me?”
When she didn’t respond, he took one of her hands and rubbed it. “She’s breathing a little fast, but that would be consistent with being frightened. And her pulse isn’t really strong but it’s definitely there.”
He put her hand back under the blanket and rubbed her arms through it. “She wasn’t dressed for a winter night. That coffee ready? That’ll do her the most good. She’s probably just cold and hungry. Not to mention scared and exhausted.”
The woman opened her eyes then, and at the sight of them, tried to propel herself backward on the sofa, looking desperate to escape.
“Whoa,” Randy said, catching her hands. “It’s okay. I’m an emergency medical technician.”
“He’s okay.” Evan came forward and handed her a cup of coffee. “I called him when you fainted. You’re safe. I’m driving a red Jeep, remember, not an SUV. This is Randy Sanford, a friend of mine.”
She studied Randy suspiciously, then looked up at Evan, her suspicion obviously deepening. But she took a sip of the coffee and seemed to relax a little.
“I’d like to take you to the hospital,” Randy said, “just to make sure you’re all right and that you fainted because you’re cold and hungry, not because of something more serious.”
BEAZIE MADE A QUICK DECISION. She could not go to the hospital. Someone would have to take down a lot of information, create a file that could be traced.
“No, thank you,” she said firmly. “I’m fine.”
“You fainted,” the first man reminded her. “Fine people don’t faint.”
“Hungry people do,” she replied. “You don’t have another doughnut, do you?”
He reached for the bag he’d given her earlier and offered it to her. She pulled out the cinnamon twist. “You should go to the hospital.”
She took a big bite of the doughnut, then glanced at him apologetically. “No, thank you. This will put me back on my feet.”
“What are you going to do then?” he asked. “You have no purse or coat.”
Many times during the cold night she had wished she’d handled her escape with more thought, but when she’d seen the red SUV on the street below her apartment, she’d panicked.
It didn’t matter, though. Somehow she was going to find this Evans person and give him the tape Gordon had passed to her with his last breath. He hadn’t deserved to die the way he did.
“I’ll do what I came to do,” she replied with far more conviction than she felt. “I’m looking for a man named Evans. Either of you know him?”
Randy Sanford pointed to his friend. “Your host is Evan Braga. But I don’t know anyone with the last name Evans. What’s your name, by the way?”
She hesitated a moment, then replied, “Beazie Deadham.” There was little point in withholding her name. If the men in the red SUV had been able to find out where she lived, she was sure they also knew her name.
Now that she was seeing more clearly and was more coherent, she realized Evan Braga wasn’t one of the men from the SUV. But Gordon had warned her not to trust anyone, and had directed her to give the tape to someone named Evans, not Evan. At least, she thought he had. His voice had been frail, and the sound in the underground parking lot less than ideal.
“That’s an unusual name,” Randy said.
“My grandmothers were Beatrice and Zoe,” she explained. “I’m Beatrice Zoe. Beazie.”
“Ah.” Randy stood. “I don’t think you need me anymore,” he said, patting her hand.
Evan Braga walked him across the room to the door, where they disappeared behind a stack of boxes.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” the man named Evan said.
“Sure. Does this square us for last night’s poker game?” Randy asked.
“No, it doesn’t,” Evan replied. “You owe me thirty bucks and you damn well better pay up or I’ll sic my attorney on you.”
Randy laughed. “Bart is into me for forty bucks for hospital benefit tickets. Why don’t you just pay me ten and we’ll call it even?”
She heard a quiet groan. “Did you really think I’d fall for that?”
“It was worth a shot.”
“Randy, listen. Keep this to yourself, okay? If this woman is in danger from whoever’s following her, I don’t want anyone to know how she got here.”
“Sure. I was never here.”
“Thanks.”
Beazie thought that a surprisingly thoughtful request of her host.
There was the sound of a door closing.
When Evan returned, he went to his desk and picked up a small telephone book. “I know a Millie Evans,” he said, handing her the book, “but she’s ninety-three and in a convalescent home.”
She felt an instant’s hope. “Does she have a son? A brother-in-law?”
He shook his head. “Single lady. She used to have a little house on the lake before she had a fall and couldn’t see to herself anymore. I painted it for her.”
Hope died, but her interest in Evan Braga stirred. “You’re a housepainter?”
He nodded.
He couldn’t be the Evans she was after. Why would Gordon want her to take a tape that had cost him his life to a housepainter?
“The man who dropped me here said you owned a development company.”
He nodded. “I do, in partnership with a friend. I used to sell real estate, too, but gave that up when this turned out to be more fun. There’s one more doughnut, and you can have a refill on the coffee.”
“No doughnut, thank you. But the coffee would be nice.”
“This mill is our first project,” he explained as he poured her another cup. “We both work for a business called Whitcomb’s Wonders. It’s a sort of temp agency, but for craftsmen who can’t work full-time because they have other things going in their lives. My friend’s a plumber and getting an MBA from Amherst in his spare time. I paint and wallpaper.”
“And what do you do in your spare time?”
“I’m getting my life together.”
She wondered what that meant. Why wouldn’t a man who appeared to be in his late thirties have his life together? A broken marriage? A financial loss?
As a rule, she found people endlessly fascinating, but she didn’t have time right now for anything more than her own pressing problems.
She flipped open the book and found the E’s. Eaton, Eckert, Egan, Emanuel, Evans… Her heart gave one eager thump, then she read, “Evans, Millie—221 Lake Front Road.”
She closed the book in exasperation. Evan topped up his own cup, then sat on the edge of his desk. “You said someone dropped you here?” he asked.
With a sigh she sank into a corner of the couch and took a sip of the fresh brew. He did make good coffee. “I got a ride on a bakery truck in Springfield,” she explained. “I told the driver I was looking for someone named Evans in Maple Hill.” She smiled wryly. “Apparently, he doesn’t know Millie. He drove me here on his way into town.”
“And why do you want this Evans?”
“I have something for him.” Still uncertain of everyone and everything, she thought it best to keep the tape she’d hidden in her bra a secret.
He looked her over from head to toe. “What would that be?” he asked. “You don’t even have a purse.”
“It’s…a message.”
There’d been something about the once-over he’d given her that was…professional. She didn’t know how else to express it. The same thought had struck her earlier when she’d watched him move around the small office with a curious tension about him, a sharpness in his eyes, a quickness in his tall, powerful body that suggested formal training.
Just so he wouldn’t have the upper hand in this odd encounter, she had to let him know that she had powers of perception, too. Putting down the phone book on the seat beside her, she looked up and met his eyes. She remembered gazing into their soft brown depths as she was passing out.
“Before you were a housepainter,” she said, “you were a soldier.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Close. I was a cop.”
She might have felt apprehensive over that. Gordon had warned her away from the police. But this Braga wasn’t a cop now.
He must have noted her wary expression.
“You asked me not to call the police,” he said. “Are you afraid of them for some reason? Had a bad experience?”
“Gordon told me not to trust them,” she replied. “I can only guess it’s because there’s one involved in his murder.”
“Well, you can relax,” he said. “It wasn’t me.”
She might be naive to believe him, but there was something solid and comforting about him, despite those watchful eyes.
As she studied them now, she thought she saw a sadness behind the vigilance. She was good at reading people. What, she wondered idly, could happen to a cop to make him give up the work for house painting? And had Gordon said Evan, not Evans?
It might take a little time to determine whether this really was the man Gordon meant. And how could she do so, with no place to stay and no money to find one?
“Were you a cop in Maple Hill?” she asked.
He shook his head. “You broke into my place,” he reminded her. “I’m the one with the right to ask questions.”
She had to give him that. “I’m sorry.” But there was a limit to what she could tell him, when she wasn’t sure he was the Evans she was looking for, and she wasn’t entirely sure what had happened herself. Or, at least, what it all meant.
“Someone’s chasing you,” he prodded, when she took a moment to organize her thoughts.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“The person who killed your boss.”
She didn’t quite remember having told him that. She remembered the spots and the way the room had undulated when she wielded her bat at him. “Yes.”
“You know who it is? I mean, by name?”
She shook her head. “There was more than one. I can identify faces, but I don’t know their names.”
“And this happened in Boston.”
“Yes.”
He frowned over that. “How’d you get away?”
She touched briefly on her escape from her apartment and the long, cold night in the back of the moving van.
For the first time, she noticed the condition of her clothes, and could only imagine what her face and hair looked like. She sagged a little into her corner. Things would certainly be simplified for her if he was the Evans she was looking for. Then she could turn over the tape and go back to Boston.
No, she couldn’t go back. Gordon had owned the insurance franchise. A sickening thought struck her. She had been a witness to Gordon’s murder. Until his killers were behind bars, it wouldn’t be safe to return home.
“Now that I’ve answered your questions,” she said, leaning slightly toward him, “can I ask again where you served as a policeman?”
He considered her, evidently as suspicious of her as she was of him. “Boston,” he replied.
She straightened. Could there be some connection between him and Gordon? “Did you know…Gordon Hathaway?”
He frowned again. “I ran across a lot of people, perps and victims, in twelve years. But that name doesn’t mean anything special.”
She sagged against the couch again, suddenly very aware of her exhaustion. But where could she go? All she could think to ask was, “Is there a homeless shelter in town?”
“There’s a new one opening December twenty-third,” he said, putting his cup aside.
A familiar bleak despair threatened to overwhelm her. That always happened when something reminded her of how absolutely alone she was in this world. “But…none now?”
“There are some homeless families staying on cots in the basement of the Catholic church.”
She angled her chin and asked, “Would you take me there?”
He studied her, those eyes roving her completely disreputable appearance, then lingering on her face. It was impossible to tell what he thought, until he leaned forward to take her cup from her and drop it with a bang on his desk.
“No,” he said simply.
EVAN LOOKED into a pair of blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and suspected he would hate himself later, but he couldn’t take her to the basement of the church and still live with himself.
He knew many homeless people had once lived productive lives and were victims of fate and circumstance, but there were always those few among them who preyed upon each other and anyone else small or weak enough to be vulnerable.
“I live in a cottage on the other side of town.” He reached toward a wooden coat rack in the corner and grabbed an old down jacket he wore when working outside. It was smeared with paint, but warm. “It has a spare bedroom and a reliable furnace.” He held the jacket out to her. “You can stay with me until you find this Evans guy.”
She stared at him, evaluating the offer. She was desperate for shelter, but not sure she could trust him.
“I have no money,” she said finally, and took the jacket.
“The offer doesn’t require money.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then she asked quietly, carefully, “What does it require?”
He understood her reluctance, but gave her a scolding look, anyway. “Trust,” he replied. “And I can use another hand on a paint roller.”
Her eyes widened slightly, and he guessed he’d surprised her. “Never painted anything?” he asked.
She smiled for the first time since he’d opened the door and found her wielding a bat at him. “My bedroom, a couple of times when I was a teenager, and my friend Horie’s first apartment. Does that count?”
He ignored her question. “Horie?”
She smiled again. It made her even prettier, despite her disheveled appearance. Her teeth were square and very white, the top right one overlapping the front tooth slightly.
“Horatia Metcalf. Her father teaches Greek in a divinity school, hence her name. She’s a little off-the-wall herself. We painted every room a different bright color.”
“Did you do a good job?”
“We thought so. Her landlord wasn’t quite as pleased.”
“Then, you’re hired,” he said. “But I’ll take you home. You can have a couple of days to catch up on your sleep before I put you to work. I, however, have to get with it.”
The suggestion that she was holding up his working day galvanized her into action. She got to her feet and let him help her into the jacket.
As she snapped it closed, he remembered the watch cap in the side pocket and reached in to hand it to her. She pulled it on and stuffed her hair into it.
He looked down worriedly at her holey stockings and low-heeled dress shoes. “Wish I had a spare pair of socks, but I’ll get you some at home.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, then wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes. “I can’t tell you how nice it is to be warm.”
He stood the collar up for her. “The lesson to be learned here is, never run away in December without your coat.”
She nodded wryly. “Or your purse.” She smiled again as he pulled the door open for her. “Of course, that lesson doesn’t apply to you, does it?”
He concentrated on locking the door behind him, afraid of getting hooked on that smile. “No,” he said, pretending to be serious. “It’s hard to decide what color purse to wear with coveralls.”
She laughed as he pointed toward the Jeep. Her smile…with sound. Intriguing. “It’s easy. Just remember that they should match your shoes.”
By the time they reached his cottage on the other side of Maple Hill, he was grateful that he had to leave her for the day. It was as though something had turned her on and she’d acquired a sparkle he hadn’t noticed when they’d interrogated each other over coffee.
A long, tree-lined drive led to his cottage. Snow covered the trees and crunched under the tires as he drove up to the porch. He parked and came around to help her out, sure that the height of the van and dress shoes would make it difficult for her to get down onto the packed and slippery snow.
She’d swung her legs over the side and appeared to be considering how best to approach the leap, when he bracketed her waist and lifted her to the ground. He felt the smallness of her waist even under the thickness of his jacket, and wondered why that should impress itself upon him. He’d known small-waisted women before.
Of course, they weren’t coming to live with him.
“Thank you,” she said cheerfully. “What a pretty place. What grows on that arbor by the garden?” She pointed to a square-topped pergola at the side of the house.
“Clematis,” he replied.
“Pink?”
“Purple.”
“Ah.” She sighed, smiling as though she could envision it. “I love purple. We painted Horie’s kitchen a sort of pale grape color.”
He wondered what that did for guests’ digestion, as he led the way up the porch steps and unlocked the door.
THE FIRST THING Evan did was crank up the thermostat.
Beazie listened attentively as he showed her how to turn it up or down, explaining that he usually lowered it when he left for work.
“I don’t want to waste your oil,” she protested, trying to think about the numbers rather than the herbal fragrance of his cologne. “The thermostat says sixty-two, but that’s still warmer than the back of the moving truck.”
He ignored her and bumped it up to seventy.
“Kitchen’s in here.”
She followed as he led the way through the soft, coffee-with-cream color of the living room and its dark blue and red furniture to an old-fashioned kitchen painted yellow. The appliances were old, but new butcher-block counters had been installed, and a small nook that looked out onto the front of the house had yellow-and-blue curtains patterned with teapots and cups.
“I’ve been slowly buffing up the house,” he said with a disparaging wave at the curtains, “but I haven’t gotten to this room yet. I don’t eat at home that much, so I’ve left it to last.”
She nodded affably, but was secretly happy he hadn’t taken down the curtains. They reminded her of those cozy fifties commercials where women cooked in shirtwaists, high heels and jewelry, while an adoring family awaited mother’s masterpiece.
He opened the door of a very small refrigerator. “Not a lot in here, I’m afraid, unless you like cheese, cola or…” He opened the freezer to reveal one box of frozen Buffalo wings.
She took it from him. “I love these.”
“Good.” He pointed to cupboards across the room. “Crackers, cereal, a few other things in there. Help yourself to whatever you want. I’ll bring some things home tonight.”
“Please don’t go to any trouble. If you usually have dinner out, go ahead. I’ll probably sleep until Monday.” She put the wings back in the freezer, then hurried to follow him as he led the way upstairs.
A small corridor with ivy-patterned wallpaper led into a very large room on the left that was comfortably cluttered. A large blob of multicolored fur lay in the middle of a dark green bedspread.
“That’s Lucinda.”
At the sound of Evan’s voice, the blob rolled onto its back and put four feet up in the air, toes curled in contentment. It was a cat.
“Really.” Beazie took one step toward it, then thought better of walking into Evan’s room. She stayed where she was and commented simply, “Very elegant name.”
“She arrived named,” he said, walking over to ruffle the furry stomach. The cat took it as her due, made a small sound of approval, then curled up again. “She belonged to Millie Evans. She can’t have a cat at the care center, but I take Lucinda to visit every once in a while.”
Beazie entertained that image as he led her across the hall to another large room, this one pink, with a window seat in a bay window and an eclectic collection of furniture. The temperature was chilly, but the warm atmosphere drew her inside.
He went to a heating vent in the floor and kicked it open with his foot. “It’ll take a little while to warm up here. Maybe you want to fix yourself the Buffalo wings first.”
She fell onto the edge of the bed, seduced by the thick soft mattress and the wonderful ambience of the room. All tension and energy escaped her like water down a drain.
“I think I’ll just go right to bed,” she said, the words requiring effort.
He studied her curiously for one moment. She expected him to tell her he’d suddenly changed his mind, but instead he went to the closet, pulled out an extra blanket and dropped it at the foot of the bed. Then he crossed the hall to his room and returned with a pair of thick socks.
“Sleep well,” he said. “See you tonight.” He left the room in an apparent hurry to get to work.
“Evan!” she called.
He reappeared in the doorway. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Sure.”
He left again, and this time she toed off her shoes, pulled on the socks and got under the blankets, still wearing the coat and hat. She felt her muscles relax one by one as she drifted off to sleep, strangely secure in the unfamiliar surroundings.
CHAPTER THREE
EVAN HAD THE FIRST COAT of trim on the accounting office’s doors and windows and was sitting in the middle of the hardwood floor with a tepid cup of coffee, when Cameron Trent appeared in the doorway. He was carrying two cups from Perk Avenue.
“So, what’s going on?” Cam asked, walking in and handing Evan a cup, then doing a slow circuit of the room, inspecting his progress.
Evan suspected this was not just a friendly visit. Cam never checked on him.
“Letting the first coat of trim dry,” he replied, sipping at the contents of the cup. Double-shot mocha. Best high-energy boost in the whole world. “Mmm, thanks. Good stuff.”
Cam turned away from his inspection and faced him across the room, his expression amused. “Who’s the girl?” he asked.
Evan shook his head at him. “They’re not girls, they’re women. Someday the political-correctness cops are going to come and take you away.”
Cam ignored all that. “I understand she arrived naked.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “She did not arrive naked. God, is there no such thing as privacy?”
“No. If she didn’t arrive naked, why did you call Mariah and ask her if there was anything in her size in the clothes she’s collecting for the homeless?”
“Because Mariah’s the same size. I thought she’d be able to find something.”
“For the naked woman?”
“She wasn’t naked!” Evan said impatiently. “She just…doesn’t have a change of clothes.”
When Cam looked confused, Evan lied in an attempt to protect Beazie, and possibly Cam and his family. Until Evan understood completely what was involved here, it was better to keep the truth to himself. “She left home in a hurry. We used to have a thing for each other, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”
Cam frowned and came to sit cross-legged on the floor, a small distance from him. “Why did she come to you?”
“She missed me. I told you. We used to be lovers.” The lie came so easily off his lips. He hoped he wasn’t going to hate himself for it later.
“She missed you so much that she came in search of you without packing a bag?”
When Evan ignored that, Cam regarded him with concern. “Where is she now?”
“I took her home to rest.” Then he added firmly, “Butt out, Cam.”
Cam raised his hands in a self-protective gesture. “I’m just looking out for you, Evan. You’d help anybody, anytime. I just wondered if she was the reason you came here with a dark burden. If so, I was going to warn you to be careful.”
Evan drew a deep breath for patience. “You know, if you hadn’t arrived with a double mocha, you’d be out on your keister by now. She’s not the reason I left Boston, but she wouldn’t come with me at the time, and now she’s decided she can’t live without me.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re happy, we’re happy. Just wanted to remind you to be careful.”
Evan had to appreciate the sincerity of Cam’s concern, if not his determination to protect him. “You know, I’m five years older than you are, and I was a cop. I think I’m equipped to handle whatever happens.”
“Just reminding you that nobody’s invincible.” As Evan grinned, Cam went on intrepidly. “I know you’ve got this lone warrior thing going and you don’t share much, and that’s okay. I used to be that way, too, until I let a woman and children and friends into my life. Now I don’t even have a thought to myself—”
Evan wasn’t sure where Cam was going with this, but it was entertaining to listen.
“Anyway, we know something major happened to you because of that accident, and it makes life difficult for you. We don’t even want to know what it is, or if and how this girl—woman—relates to that, just that you’ll call us if you need us.”
There was something oddly touching and seriously annoying in the knowledge that his friends had read his situation so clearly. They didn’t have details, but they’d certainly grasped the basics.
“She has nothing to do with that.”
Cam said, “I’m talking in generalities.”
“You’re crazy.”
His friend toasted him with his empty cup and got to his feet. “Who else would go into partnership with you? See you.”
Evan followed him to the door. “You know anybody around here named Evans?”
“Yeah,” Cam replied. “Millie. The woman you bought your house—”
Evan shook his head. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Why?”
“Never mind. Thanks. And thanks for the mocha.”
“Sure. See you Sunday. Bring the woman.”
Evan accepted that his friends were intent on providing backup, whether he needed it or not. He glanced at his watch. Almost five. He’d better get moving if he was going to stop for groceries on the way home. It was a little unsettling to think that someone was there waiting for him.
BEAZIE SLEPT until midafternoon and awoke feeling a little like she was in a sauna. The house had warmed up considerably, and she was still wearing the coat and hat Evan had lent her. She was also wearing Lucinda.
The cat opened big yellow eyes as Beazie stirred, then meowed a protest and dug into the front of the jacket when Beazie tried to sit up.
Beazie laughed and stroked the cat, then tried to lift her off. Lucinda meowed peevishly and leaped down, clearly affronted at being disturbed.
Sitting up in the middle of the bed, Beazie peeled off the coat and hat, then looked around her, captivated anew by the coziness of the simple room. The furniture was trendily mismatched—an oak highboy, a white wardrobe in the distressed cottage style, a small, square shelf that served as a bedside table, and a cut-shade lamp. The bed itself was brass and quite ornate.
And the pieces had the feel of things handed down, kept because they were loved or had precious memories attached.
As a child she’d had a room something like this. She’d felt loved and…attached. Then her father, a commercial airline’s pilot, had died in a crash, and her mother had remarried three times in quick succession, trying to recapture the love she’d lost. She had divorced as quickly, and died six years ago of complications from surgery. Beazie personally thought she’d simply given up on love and life.
Determined that wasn’t going to happen to her, Beazie pushed herself out of bed. She was going to find this Evans person, turn over the tape, then take off for parts unknown and start all over. It wasn’t as though she had loved ones in Boston. Well, there was Horie, but she could keep in touch with her no matter where she was.
She went to the window and looked out. All she could see were the tops of trees, the sawtoothlike arrangement of evergreens, and the lacy bareness of oak, maple and sycamore. She spotted the top of a church spire and the wrought-iron widow’s walk of what must be an old colonial home.
Or maybe, she thought with a wistful sigh, I’ll just stay here. She felt a little as though she were safely tucked in a tree house in the woods, as far removed from the threats that had plagued her last night as it was possible to be.
Then she came to her senses and realized that was a foolish thought. She wanted the life in that fifties commercial, and it didn’t exist. She wanted someone to give her back her childhood, and that wasn’t going to happen. The men in the red SUV had lost her trail but were certainly still chasing her. She had to focus on finding Evans and getting rid of the tape.
Her eyes lingered on the view and she expelled a little sigh of longing. Maybe she could just hold on to that dream and tuck it away. It would never come true, but she could still draw comfort from it in a small way.
She found the bathroom across the hall and a stack of dark blue towels on a wicker stand. Lucinda followed her in and curled up on the dark blue carpet.
Remembering that she’d need clothes or something to wear when she stepped out of the shower, Beazie stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, then, suddenly inspired, looked on the back of the bathroom door. A brown velour robe hung on the hook there.
Buoyed by that piece of good fortune, she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower.
Fifteen minutes later she was belting the robe, a towel wrapped around her hair, when she heard the faint sound of activity downstairs. She stood still, her heart lurching with fear that the red SUV had found her, after all.
That was ridiculous, she told herself briskly, quietly opening the door. It was probably just Evan returning home. That possibility was still a little scary, but not in the same way.
He didn’t like her, didn’t trust her, and had invited her to stay with him out of Christian charity. That should be good enough for her, but somehow it wasn’t.
Lucinda raced out the door past her, meowing.
Beazie tossed the towel aside, combed her fingers through her hair, then stepped quietly into the hall. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she heard the sound of female laughter from the direction of the kitchen.
A surprising thought hit her. Evan was married! And maybe had a daughter. She could hear two voices.
That possibility both relieved and distressed her, but she was too curious to analyze why. Then she heard a baby cry, and ran lightly down the stairs.
She arrived at the kitchen doorway and saw a baby carrier on the table and two women unloading what appeared to be casserole dishes and…clothing.
A small, dark-haired woman went to lift the crying baby out of the carrier and spotted Beazie. She smiled apologetically.
“I’m sorry we woke you!” she said, holding the baby to her with one hand and coming toward Beazie with the other outstretched. “I’m Haley Megrath.” She indicated the squalling baby. “This is Henrietta—Henri for short.”
Beazie shook her hand and duly admired the baby, then the woman indicated her friend, another dark-haired woman with a friendly smile. “And this is Mariah Trent. We’re friends of Evan’s. Mariah’s husband is his partner, Cam Trent, and my husband, Bart, is their lawyer.”
“Hi, I’m Beazie Deadham. I was already up and in the shower. What…?” She pointed to the clothing draped over chairs.
“Oh, right.” Haley took a bottle out of her purse on the table and put the nipple in the baby’s mouth. Henrietta stopped crying instantly and made urgent, sucking sounds. “Mariah and I are heading up a committee to supply the food and clothing bank for a new homeless shelter.”
Beazie nodded, remembering that Evan had mentioned the shelter.
“So, we’ve been gathering clothes. I’ve personally contributed a lot because I needed some new things after the baby came.” She rolled her eyes. “Thickening waist, bigger hips. You know.”
Beazie didn’t, but she couldn’t imagine what this woman had looked like before, if the figure she sported now in jeans and a simple sweater was thicker than it had been.
“Anyway, he told Mariah about your arrival here with no change of clothes and wondered if we had anything you could use, since you and she are about the same size.”
Beazie picked up a rich-blue sweatsuit draped over the back of a chair. Then a softer-blue turtleneck sweater. She uttered a grateful gasp, feeling as though she’d just been given carte blanche at Filene’s.
Mariah held up a pair of blue jeans. “Think these will fit? They’re Haley’s. Sometimes men are wrong about sizes.”
Beazie shook her head regretfully. “I’m flattered to be thought the same size as Haley—” she smiled apologetically “—but I’m solid peasant stock. I’m a ten.”
Mariah folded up the jeans and dug into another bag. “Good. You are my size.” She smiled conspiratorially. “It’s the chocolate. And Haley’s always running around chasing news stories, so she gets more exercise. She’s publisher of the Maple Hill Mirror. I just drive children around and wait for them to finish ballet lessons, tai chi lessons, swimming lessons, soccer games, baseball games, basketball—”
“She gets the point,” Haley interrupted, then said to Beazie, “Why don’t you just look through what we’ve brought and take what you want. My sweaters would fit you.”
Beazie clutched the sweats and sweater to her and took the jeans Mariah held out. “Two changes of clothes will see me through. I feel guilty taking from the homeless.”
“We’ve collected lots of things,” Haley insisted. “Help yourself with a clear conscience. And Mariah made a couple of casseroles so you won’t have to cook for a few days. I don’t think Evan cooks at all.”
Beazie felt called upon to come to his defense. “He does make good coffee, though.”
Haley moved the baby to her shoulder and patted her back. “He’s great, and we all love him, though he’s pretty private. He’s always the first one to offer help if one of us needs it, so it’s nice to be able to help him in a small way.”
Mariah turned from putting the last of the casseroles in the refrigerator and dusted off her hands. “Just about filled that up.” Then she reached to the floor for another paper bag. “These are toiletries and some makeup samples I got at a house party and never used.” She put the bag on the table and pulled out a few things. “We thought if you needed clothes, you might need some other things, too. Shampoo and conditioner, moisturizer, a sample bottle of perfume.” Then she put it all back. “So you don’t have to use guy stuff.”
Beazie was overwhelmed, and couldn’t help wondering what Evan had told them. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
Haley waved away the necessity for thanks. “The only thing we couldn’t find was shoes. What size do you wear?”
“Eights.”
Mariah shook her head regretfully. “Haley’s are too small and mine are too big. But there is…” She rummaged in several bags and emerged triumphantly with a pair of pink chenille slip-on slippers. “Here. At least you can be comfy around the house.”
Beazie sat down and put the slippers on. They were perfect.
The baby burped loudly and Haley laughed. “Well. Our work here is done.” She stood to go.
Mariah began collecting empty bags and pushed those still full of clothes against the cupboards and out of the way. “Pick through those and just return what you can’t use.”
“Can you stay for coffee?” Beazie asked, remembering belatedly her good manners.
“Thanks,” Mariah said, “but I have kids to pick up, and Haley has to get to a Traffic Safety Committee meeting. We have lunch with Jackie every Friday, though. Would you like to join us?”
“Jackie’s the mayor of Maple Hill,” Haley explained. “My sister-in-law.”
Beazie nodded, following them as they moved toward the door. “Evan told me about that. Your brother has a company of tradesmen temps.”
“Yes. Turned out to be a brilliant idea. They’re so busy, though, the jobs are hardly temporary anymore.”
“We’re all in the phone book,” Mariah said, opening the door for Haley and the baby. “If you can’t remember names, just call Whitcomb’s Wonders—that’s the company—and Haley’s mom is usually taking calls. She can reach any one of us.”
“Thank you again.”
“Sure. You take care.”
Beazie watched as Haley fastened the baby seat in the back of a green sedan and Mariah climbed into the passenger seat. Haley tapped the horn as she drove away.
Beazie closed the kitchen door behind her, then, noting the late-afternoon shadows, flipped on the light. Silence fell on her like a blanket. The sudden arrival of the two women and the baby had been like a cheerful tornado in the quiet house, and now that they were gone it seemed even more silent than before. While she could acknowledge that solitude was preferable to being chased, she’d spent most of the past six years trying to chase away the silence.
That was the worst part of loneliness, she’d often thought. A single person had only the sounds of the clock, the refrigerator, and the television, which she usually put on the moment she arrived home and turned off just before she went to sleep.
But a house should have the cheerful noise of projects under way. The hum of a sewing machine, the whine of a saw, the discordant but encouraging music of a child learning an instrument, the bark of a dog.
This house had the look of what she wanted, she thought, turning in a tight circle to take in the kitchen, but none of the sounds. She experienced one brief moment of utter and complete loneliness, then forced herself to bury it and move on. She knew how to do that. She’d done it many times.
She took the bags of clothes upstairs and spent the next half hour trying things on. She kept two pairs of Mariah’s jeans, a blue and a black, a simple black skirt and sweater, and a green fleece top patterned with red poinsettias. Christmas was just around the corner. She put on the blue sweats, hung the things she was keeping in the wardrobe, then packed everything else back into the bags and stashed them to return tomorrow.
Then she padded downstairs in the slippers and checked out the casseroles. There was ham, potato and broccoli casserole in a square dish, lasagna in an oblong one, and chicken and noodles in a round bowl, each thoughtfully labeled with cooking time and temperature.
She took out the square casserole and preheated the oven. Mariah had also left a bowl of salad and a bag of dinner rolls on the counter.
When she searched the cupboards for plates, Beazie was surprised to find a four-place setting of fine china, patterned on the rim with red and yellow flowers and a gold trim. She took down two plates and stared at them. She’d expected a bachelor to have pottery or plastic.
After setting the table, she made a pot of coffee, put a small fern she’d found in the living room in the middle of the table and waited for Evan to come home.
EVAN HAD NOT BEEN GREETED at the door in— Well, he couldn’t remember how long it had been. Probably since his mother welcomed him home when he was in high school.
And it had been that long since he’d walked in the door to the aroma of dinner in the oven, coffee brewing and a woman fussing around him, a floral perfume wafting in her wake.
Well, Beazie wasn’t fussing, but she’d come to take one of the two grocery bags he carried. And when he saw her, for a moment he couldn’t move.
She’d showered and shampooed her hair and tied it up with a piece of twine into a fat, glossy ponytail. The blue sweatshirt she was wearing intensified the blue of her eyes, and when he looked for her freckles, he couldn’t find them. She had a finished, almost glamorous look—despite the sweats. And she was giving him that smile.
He felt himself wanting to go back outside and drive away. He knew this woman could be dangerous, and not just because she was being chased. Still, he’d sometimes been stupid, but he’d never been a coward. And she needed help.
“Hi,” he made himself say with an answering smile as he went to the counter with the other bag of groceries. “Mariah must have been here.”
“She was.” She pulled canned soups and vegetables out of the bag and lined them up on the counter. “Thank you. It was thoughtful of you to scrounge a wardrobe for me. And she brought me shampoo and makeup.”
He nodded. “I noticed the freckles were gone.”
“Not gone, just undercover. Mariah and Haley also brought three casseroles so I wouldn’t have to cook—because everyone seems to know that you don’t.”
“That’s because every time we have a gathering and I have to bring something, I get it from the deli. Dead giveaway.”
“You’re lucky to have friends who want your company.” She folded the now-empty paper bag. “Anyplace in particular you’d like these things?” She opened a cupboard and analyzed its meager contents. “Is there a system?”
“No. There’s seldom anything in there. Just put it wherever you like.”
“Okay.” She began putting things away with a swift confidence that spoke of experience. She paused to grin as she held up a jar of peanut butter and a box of grape Kool-Aid that were already in the shelf. “Do you like your peanut butter with jelly or marshmallow cream?”
He put the bags in a recycling bin at the edge of the counter and pulled off his jacket. “I don’t like it at all,” he answered. “I baby-sat for Cam and Mariah one night at the last minute, and Mariah, knowing how I am, sent those things with the kids so they’d have something to snack on. We went out for pizza, instead.”
“I love peanut butter,” she said, placing it back on the shelf and collecting canned goods around it. “I practically lived on it when I was first on my own because it’s so economical and nutritious.”
He thought it strange that they were talking about peanut butter and groceries, when just this morning she’d been bedraggled and hunted and holding a bat on him. Tonight she seemed like any well-adjusted young woman performing the simple domestic duty of stocking her shelves.
Only they were his shelves. And neither one of them should forget that.
The timer rang and she closed the doors on a very orderly cupboard, picked up two kitchen towels to use as pot holders and pulled the casserole out of the oven. It smelled wonderful.
He poured water and coffee, and they sat across from each other at the table. For the first time since he’d walked in the door, he felt tension. He ignored it, sure it must be just his own reaction to having a strange woman in his home after a year of comfortable solitude.
“Where’s your family?” she asked companionably, passing him the basket of rolls. “Were you born in Boston?”
His family. He missed them, but he’d tried hard not to think about them since leaving home. He’d dealt with and accepted what had happened, but he couldn’t find his place in their circle anymore. It was easier to put them out of his mind.
“I was born in the Midwest,” he replied. “We still have a lot of family there. But my mother moved us to Boston when she married my stepfather.”
“I love Boston,” she said chattily as she buttered a roll. “I was born in Buffalo. We moved to Boston when my mother remarried after my father died.” She took a dainty bite of the roll. “But that didn’t work out and she married a third time, then a fourth. The last husband was a banker, an older man who seemed very steady and solid, but she got sick, and I guess that wasn’t what he’d planned for his golden years, so…” She made an awkward little movement with her hand. “He left, she died, and I…stayed in Boston.”
“How old were you?”
“Eighteen. Old enough to be on my own.”
He remembered himself at eighteen, mouthy and brash and confident in his mind and his body. Until he went to college and met better minds, stronger bodies, and felt all his confidence shrivel. He wondered if she’d had to take the few steps back that eventually brought maturity.
“At least, I thought I was,” she admitted after a moment, as though she’d read his mind. “Then I discovered how much parents do for you that you’re unaware of until you have to do it for yourself. And that supporting yourself has a million hidden expenses that keep you too broke to have lunch out, or meet your friends after work for a drink.” She sighed and gave him a frail smile. “And that being alone 24/7 is not the way I want to spend the rest of my life. To remedy that, I spent the year I was twenty-one on a determined search to find a soul mate. I went to a lot of parties, but was selective about whom I dated. But I still managed to get it wrong.
“I had narrowed my choices to two men I really liked. Turned out one was already engaged to a girl in California, and the other got arrested for insider trading.”
He had to smile. “Tough luck.”
She nodded with an answering grin. “True. So I gave up on the search, but I need company, noise, activity. I get so tired of the silence.”
“I came here to find silence,” he said. “After being a cop for twelve years, my head is full of noises I’d rather not hear again.” And after he’d been here for a while, he’d stopped hearing the crash in his head.
She studied him worriedly, and he stopped with a bite of casserole halfway to his mouth. “What?” he asked.
“Is it going to be hard for you to have me here? I mean, I know you invited me to be kind, but you’re beginning to regret it, aren’t you. I can see it in your face. When you walked in the door tonight, I could almost hear your thoughts. Oh, that’s right! She’s here. Well, I’ll have to make the best of it.”
Guilt made him defensive. She was absolutely right. “I thought nothing of the kind,” he denied, “so just relax.”
“I shouldn’t be here long at all.”
“I know that.”
“And I’ll work for my keep.”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll try not to pollute your space—but I sing when I’m working, and sometimes I talk to myself, and I like to have the radio—”
“You’re making a lot of noise,” he interrupted, “promising not to make a lot of noise.”
She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “So you’re not the sweetheart you pretend to be, are you.”
Sweetheart? “I never pretended to be any—”
“No, I guess it’s not pretense,” she amended, leaning forward again to pick up her fork. “It just seems to come with the chromosome in some of you. You’re all concerned and protective, you offer reassurances in that voice every woman dreams of, then when we begin to believe it, you pull back. Or you’re on to other things.”
That assessment was so brutal, he didn’t know what to say.
“My mother fell for it three times,” she went on between bites, her manner curiously detached considering the intensity of the subject. “We could have gotten along when my father died if we’d leaned on each other, but she kept trying to find the magic he’d put into her life—and it just wasn’t there without him.”
He was beginning to see something here, a possible explanation for her softly spoken assault on the male character. “So…your life was probably difficult,” he guessed, “while she dragged you with her through three marriages and three stepfathers.”
She shrugged one shoulder, as though it didn’t matter. “The second marriage was nothing, really. He was a tennis pro who turned out to be a flake. He was never real enough for me to take seriously. It only lasted five months.”
“And the third one?”
“Almost a year. He drank too much.” She grew quiet.
“But the fourth marriage was different?” he guessed.
A line appeared between her eyebrows as she talked on, clearly lost in memories of her third stepfather.
“I was sixteen and beginning to feel lost because I knew my mother was. Hal was gray-haired and cheerful, and for a whole year things were perfect. They sailed and skied, and we took weekend trips to Buck’s County or the Poconos. He was easy to talk to and seemed to really care about us.” She took a few sips of coffee, leaned her forearms on the table and looked into his eyes. “Then he retired, my mother got sick, and it was clear from the beginning that it would be a long, debilitating illness. I got home from school, eager to share with him that I’d been accepted at Southern Massachusetts University, and he was gone. My mother said he’d told her that he’d worked hard all his life and looked forward to traveling and doing all the things there hadn’t been time for before.”
“That’s rotten,” he said, angry that a man could do that. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged again. “My mother could have lived a long time. I’d gladly have taken care of her, but she gave up. She couldn’t find what she’d had with Daddy, and it just didn’t occur to her that she had the ability to make her own life worth living.” She added bleakly, “Or that I was still there.”
Now he got the picture. She hadn’t just been young and alone, she’d been betrayed and abandoned—several times.
“And on the strength of the hour you spent with me this morning,” he said, “and the half hour tonight, you’re assuming that I’m the same?”
She pushed her plate away. “You have that look,” she said, “that says you’d really rather not have to deal with me.”
Fueled by annoyance now, as well as guilt, he was vocal in his own defense. “First of all,” he replied, “you’re here, aren’t you? And you wouldn’t be if I didn’t want to deal with you. And secondly, you broke into my office, held me at batpoint, and told me some of your story, but not all of it, because you aren’t willing to trust me completely. And since that story involves a murder and a ruthless chase, you’re surprised that I’m a little wary of you?”
“You offered me shelter,” she pointed out. “I asked you to take me to the—”
“Further proof,” he cut in, “that I’m trying to help. I think what’s bothering you isn’t ‘that look’ I’m supposed to be wearing, but your own insecurities.”
Okay, that had been harsh. He wasn’t entirely surprised when her eyes brimmed with tears and she got up from the table with a wounded look—one that would keep him awake for hours—and ran upstairs.
Some sweetheart he was.
CHAPTER FOUR
BEAZIE WAS FROZEN, and she couldn’t determine where she was. It felt like she was in deep freeze. She was cold inside as well as out.
She must be dying. Tremors racked her, and she wondered if it was possible to rattle apart, for cold limbs to simply break off—the way pieces of your life sometimes did.
Darkness permeated everything, and she swore she could feel her life slipping away. She tried to remember the warmth of love, of belonging, of being needed, but it had been gone for so long.
She began to weep for it. Longing was cold, too, and only served to worsen her situation.
Then she heard the sounds of a car engine, saw headlights in her frigid darkness, then men with guns drawn, coming for her.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/muriel-jensen/man-with-a-miracle/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.