by Jenna Kernan
“Still looking over her glasses at kids?”
“Yes!” said Lori and rolled her golden eyes and then did a fair imitation. “I don’t know what she was talking about. We’re studying plants and she was talking about comotosis and phototosis or something and I think that’s high school stuff. And she is so boring! She makes me comotosis!”
He laughed. Lori was funny.
“Mitosis and photosynthesis?” asked her grandmother, impatience making her voice tight.
“Maybe,” said Lori.
“And this—” she waved a finger at Lori before continuing “—is the sort of nonsense that caused me to have to speak to her after class.” Mrs. Morris turned to Logan. “I don’t see why I should be punished for my granddaughter’s disrespect.”
His brother’s new “dragon-orange metallic” Audi Q8 model SUV raced by, exceeding the speed limit. The color looked to Logan exactly like the orange flashing light on a snowplow. He frowned.
Mrs. Morris watched the SUV disappear after the procession. “You should give him a ticket.” Then she directed her cool gray eyes on Logan. “Shame about Dr. Sullivan.”
Word traveled fast.
“Did Paige call you, Mrs. Morris?”
“You can call me Beverly, Logan, as I’ve told you.”
He looked away, uncomfortable with that. He’d always think of her as Paige’s mom, Mrs. Morris, despite her insistence that he call her by her first name.
Mrs. Morris sighed. “Yes, she did call.”
“What happened to Dr. Sullivan?” asked Lori.
The two adults exchanged a look. Logan shook his head. He wasn’t speaking about this before an eight-year-old. The world had too many monsters, but the ones under her bed would do for now.
Mrs. Morris clearly felt differently for she answered the question.
“Your mother’s supervisor has been in an accident.”
“Is he okay?”
“No, I don’t think he is.”
“What kind of accident?” asked Lori.
“I’ll tell you on the way home.” Mrs. Morris set them in motion. Lori remembered to say goodbye and waved a hand sheathed in a mitten fashioned to look like a zebra puppet complete with a braided tail and pink lolling tongue. The googly eyes rolled, making it look as if it also had a head injury. Logan waved back. Then he replaced his hat and returned inside to the phones.
He made it only to the new wheelchair ramp and paused at the sound, unsure what it was. He could identify where it came from, toward the village library, on the corner of Raquette and Main, in the former home of the Hornbeck family. The village’s namesake had founded the bank back when the railroad stopped in this village. The sound reminded him of a fish thrashing in the river after it was hooked. But it turned out to be Paige Morris, hurrying along Main, passing the autobody shop and the antiquarian bookstore.
She wiped her face every few seconds with her gloved hands. Today was cold and windy, and Paige had a blocked tear duct. He remembered with perfect clarity in the winters of their childhood that the tears rolled down her left cheek and froze on the collar of her maroon nylon snow coat. Funny how he could remember that but not a minute of his time in the US Marines or a minute of his engagement to Paige.
But Paige’s tear duct dripping did not make a noise and she was making a noise. Was that pain? He crossed Main Street to intercept her. She usually walked home after five but was early today.
It wasn’t until he was nearly before her that she noticed him. The noise she was now making was obvious. Paige was crying.
Chapter Four
Paige hurried up Main Street with her head down against the wind and her shoulders bent by the weight of her troubles. Someone stepped directly into her path, bringing her up short. She startled, glancing up. Instinctively, her hand went to her shoulder bag and the printed copy of the file she had found on Dr. Sullivan’s computer.
Logan stood before her.
For just a moment he looked as he always had, back when her family had been in trouble and he’d done the wrong thing for the right reason. One look into Logan’s sympathetic eyes and she fell to pieces.
The years of his absence disappeared. Pain and fear lowered her resistance and she stepped into his arms, sobbing. He was just the right height to cradle her against his chest and rest his chin on the top of her head. His familiar scent comforted her as tears rolled down her cheeks like raindrops down a windowpane.
“Why are you crying?” he said. “Is it Dr. Sullivan?”
She couldn’t have answered if she had wanted to. And she couldn’t tell him what had happened. But she wasn’t sure who to tell about the text message or what she had found afterward. She wasn’t even sure what the document meant, just that it highlighted an inconsistency. Inconsistencies were the enemies of quality assurance.
Dr. Sullivan had found something. She suspected he reported his concerns to the head of security or to his supervisor, Sinclair Park, or even the CFO, Veronica Vitale, and then he had died.
A correlational relationship. Not necessarily causal. But she could not eliminate, out of hand, the possibility of causality.
“Is this about Dr. Sullivan?” Logan asked again.
Paige nodded, snuggling closer to the canvas jacket supplied to Logan by the village.
Logan cradled her against him. “I’m sorry about Dr. Sullivan, Paige.”
Nodding, she managed to rein in the sobs. Logan helped coach Ed’s son on basketball. He’d lost a friend, as well. Her coworker’s death would leave such a hole in the community. And his kids...his wife...
Her ragged breath and a hum in the back of her throat was all the sound emerging from her.
“He was a good man,” said Logan.
“He was.”
“They had the state police up there. County sheriff, too.”
Since they were a village of only a little over four hundred residents, they could not afford a police force. But after Logan had come home, his brother, then newly appointed to the village council, raised concerns that traffic had increased with the arrival of the pharmaceutical company two years before, the company that Connor himself had helped advocate for. Rathburn-Bramley expected the village to manage the increased traffic flow and issues arising from the daily commute of the workforce of two hundred employees, nearly all of which lived outside their community. The taxes they paid more than covered the cost of the salary of the new village constable, the hiring of whom had caused debate in the village, narrowly winning out over the placement of a traffic light on Main. Rathburn-Bramley also covered the cost of a new hook-and-ladder fire truck, EMS vehicle and emergency equipment for the volunteer fire department, continuing to make yearly donations. The company seemed interested in a good public image, and they were willing to pay for it.
Now the village had both a well-equipped volunteer fire department and a constable, who was fully trained according to New York State law. Finding a doctor to pass Logan on the medical exam had been a challenge, but Connor had managed that, too. His brother had wisely ridden the wave of pride generated by Logan’s heroism. As a Silver Star recipient, Lance Corporal Logan Lynch made his hometown proud. Because of his accident, no one expected him to do much but direct traffic every afternoon and march in the village parades.
“They’ll find who did this,” said Logan.
“I doubt it,” she whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He drew back and dropped a kiss on her forehead, then drew back again, his face registering worry. Perhaps he thought he had overstepped.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be.” She’d enjoyed his tender touch, a reminder of his protective care of her at a time long ago.
He looked relieved. “I’m glad you walked this way.”
This route was slightly longer than
cutting across Railroad Avenue and then turning up Turkey Hollow Road to Main. But she walked it daily so she could see him. He’d often walk her home, then return to the office next to the hair salon or, on evenings when she was running late and he’d finished directing traffic, he’d simply walk her home and then head to the house next door to hers. Like her, Logan had never moved out of his childhood home. He and his dad, now a widower, lived in the big yellow farmhouse north of her mother’s place, a white, two-story home that had been there for a hundred and fifty years. Both farms had barns large enough to hold a few cows and a plot of pastureland behind that was big enough to keep them fed summer and winter. The cows had been moved out long ago, before Paige or Logan’s parents purchased their houses. Paige’s dad had been a dentist until his death in an automobile accident during her junior year in college. Logan had lost his mom just after he had turned eleven.
How old were Steven and Valerie Sullivan? Paige tried to remember Ed talking about their birthdays. Steven would turn fourteen this December, old enough to try out for the JV team next year. That made Valerie...eleven. The same age Logan had been.
The ache in her heart pulsed with every beat.
Those poor kids. She was glad they had Ursula. Their mom was strong and capable. She’d be there for her children.
Paige rested her head on Logan’s shoulder and her arms hung at her sides. He patted her back while she tried and failed not to long for more than comfort from him. She lifted her head to gaze up at his big brown eyes, looking again for a flicker of recognition. She went still as her body galloped to life. Everything inside her wanted him to kiss her. Except he didn’t. He never did. The top of her head did not count.
“Why don’t you think they’ll catch who did this?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the faith in the system that you did. Do,” she corrected. “Never have.”
“If you hear anything, Paige, you should tell me.”
“I should,” said Paige. But she wouldn’t.
She felt she couldn’t rely on Logan anymore, ever since he’d left for Iraq years ago, not telling her he was reenlisting until it was too late.
Now all memory of her as the love of his life had been blown out of his thick skull.
After her dad died, she and her mom struggled financially, and she really didn’t know if she could finish her undergraduate degree. With no life insurance and in deep debt, her father had left her mother and Paige in dire straits, with only bankruptcy protecting their home.
Even so, it was her father and mother’s mess. Not hers; certainly not Logan’s. She’d told him that and that she’d figure it out. But Logan had done what he thought best. Without consulting her. Reenlisted and volunteered for the higher-paying combat duty. She could have strangled him then and now.
She had told him, at the time, that she believed life decisions that affected them both should be discussed. He thought her ungrateful. He said he was taking care of things. The disagreement that ensued had turned ugly and he’d asked for his ring back.
She’d been so shocked that he would break their engagement especially after her father had just passed away, but she had done as he asked and returned the diamond solitaire. Logan had left for Iraq and she had not seen him again until after his accident.
“You can trust me, Paige.”
“I do trust you.” But inside, she just didn’t count on him anymore. He had improved. Was it enough to try again? She gazed up at him, wondering what he’d do if she just kissed him already. Maybe that would jog something loose inside that brain. Like the reverse of the prince kissing Sleeping Beauty.
She reminded herself how grateful she was he’d come home at all. When she’d first learned of his injuries, though, she thought he was gone in a different way, never to return. His doctors told his family that Logan would probably not be capable of caring for himself. But she had disagreed. She’d gone to him at Walter Reed and stayed right up until her due date.
When he’d finally come home, Paige had been there. But after Lori’s injury, people who knew they’d been together urged her to move on, not to burden him or herself with trying to recover memories of a relationship that had broken up anyway.
She’d tried. She still did. Until moments like this when she wanted him to remember everything, to be awakened by her touch, her kiss. But that wasn’t how brain injury and recovery worked. Some things were just gone forever. She had to accept that.
Sleeping Beauty, she thought and smiled. Logan was still beautiful. The scar didn’t change that. His dark, fathomless eyes and crisp, thick hair still tempted. Even that stupid cowboy hat made him look as handsome as any Western hero of movie or television.
She paused to face him. He pushed back the brim of his hat. She used her teeth to tug off one glove and then used her index finger to trace the hard line of his jaw. His coarse whiskers gently scraped her finger pad. She gave him her best seductive smile.
And for an instant, he was back. His eyes went wide with speculation and then came that easy, slow smile.
A familiar garish, orange Audi SUV raced by them and made an illegal U-turn right on Main. Connor Lynch pulled to a halt at the curb, and the passenger window whisked down. Logan’s brother leaned across the seat to peer at them.
As if caught doing something illegal, Paige jumped back from Logan and now glowered at Connor. He used to make a habit of interrupting them whenever he thought they might be...occupied. Some things never changed.
“Paige, you need a lift home?”
She stiffened and narrowed her eyes at Connor. This was yet another attempt to keep her away from his little brother. He’d made his feelings crystal clear after Logan finally came home. Logan was not capable of that sort of relationship, Connor had told her in no uncertain terms. And she should not burden him with trying to have one. Connor had been adamant, she’d ignored him and Lori had suffered as a result.
She’d backed off, but stayed close, watching his gradual improvement. He might not remember her, but his accident had not reduced his intelligence. Even his doctors said so. The slow speech and hearing trouble were results of brain injury. The part of his brain that handled cognitive function had been unharmed. Most people around here forgot that. Spoke to him more slowly than necessary and as if they were dealing with a child or a pet monkey. It infuriated her.
But was that indignation on his behalf or fury over what she had lost? She didn’t know, and sometimes her disappointment over Logan reenlisting blended into a general anger at the universe for stealing something precious from them both.
“I can walk her home,” said Logan to his big brother, his speech slow by comparison.
“Aren’t you supposed to be directing traffic at five?” he asked his kid brother.
“Yes. But I have time to walk her home and get back.”
“Today we need you in your office to cover phones. We had a traffic fatality. You still have a job, bud. Don’t blow it on me.”
“I can walk her and then come back. I didn’t take a lunch today.”
Connor ignored him. “Paige. Get in the car.”
Her home was half a mile east on Route 10, but she wasn’t sure she could make it, even leaning on Logan. She was equally sure that she didn’t want to ride with Connor. Ever since his little brother came back from Iraq, Connor had been trying to move in on her. Not that his little brother noticed because he’d forgotten her with the rest. Logan might not remember what they were together, but she did. And Connor was not Logan’s replacement. She’d told him so, more than once. All the cars and boats and fancy houses in the world wouldn’t change that.
Logan drew back as if anxious to put her aside again.
“It’s getting cold. Windy,” he said and glanced toward his brother’s car. Logan could drive, but his truck was parked back beside the office.
She stared up at him, willing him to
recall something, anything, as she had so many times before. The betrayal of his forgetting them as a couple, as an engaged couple, of him forgetting he told her that he loved her forever and would make this all right, hurt in her bones. That betrayal had mellowed into a pervasive longing and soul-deep aching sadness. It hurt to look at him sometimes, especially when she was remembering, and he was just giving her that congenial smile.
Still, she had to wonder, who did she seek out when she was in trouble? Not Connor, the village councilman with a successful business in real estate and a large empty house of his own.
She’d come to Logan.
“Paige, I have to talk to you,” said Connor.
Her radar engaged. What did a village councilman have to talk to her about? She decided right then that she was not speaking to him or anyone else about what she had found until after she had reread the document from Dr. Ed’s folder.
Logan opened the passenger-side door, and Paige reluctantly slipped inside. She gave his free hand a squeeze, but he didn’t return it as he once would have.
Connor took his foot off the brake, and she waved to Logan, whose brow knit as he lifted a hand in farewell.
And then she was being whisked down Main Street, toward her mother’s home, her home again, too.
She still couldn’t believe she was back here in Hornbeck. That had never been her intention. Neither had getting pregnant her senior year of college. Her mother disapproved of Paige’s decision to keep the baby and stay close to help with Logan’s recovery. But Lori’s accident forced Paige to face facts. What choice did she have? She’d needed to earn a living and care for her daughter, so she’d accepted the fellowship at Cornell and earned her master’s degree in only one year. Next came an opportunity in Arlington, Virginia. But when her mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer, Paige had come home to find Logan much improved, a fact that no one in his family or her mother had shared with her. The job at Rathburn-Bramley allowed her to stay. That had been four years ago. They had even paid for her doctorate. And here she was, still, close to Logan and waiting for him to come back to her.