Confessions: He's the Rich BoyHe's My Soldier Boy

by Lisa Jackson

  * * *

  WRONG? HE’D BEEN wrong about Carlie? For long over a decade? Ben drove through the rain-washed streets and swore under his breath. He couldn’t trust her, of course. She was probably lying again, but the anguish in her clear blue eyes had nearly convinced him. She might be lying but she believed her lies!

  “Damn,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing against the rain drizzling down his windshield. Could he have been so stupid not to realize that Carlie had given him her virginity that night so long ago? Had he been deluding himself, wasting time hating her for a decade? Not that he’d had all that much experience himself and he’d been so caught up in his own passion that he hadn’t been thinking clearly. She hadn’t said anything and he hadn’t asked.

  Later, upon finding the letters in Kevin’s house and reading between the lines, thus learning of Carlie’s pregnancy, Ben had felt as if a hot knife of betrayal had been twisted in his heart. The thought that she’d made love to Kevin had burned like acid in his gut and he’d thrown up. What had been so special between them suddenly seemed dirty and incestuous and ugly. His blossoming love for her had withered quickly into hatred, a hatred his family had helped nurture.

  So why was he half believing her and second-guessing himself? Because he wanted her. Even though he professed to hate her, he couldn’t help remembering the feel of her body against his, the way her lips rounded when she moaned, the curve of her neck when he held her close. His fingers clenched hard over the steering wheel and he nearly missed stopping for a red light. At the last minute he slammed on his brakes. A furious horn blasted from behind him.

  “Damn,” he said under his breath.

  Another impatient honk warned him that the light had changed yet again, and he tromped on the accelerator, the back wheels spinning on the wet pavement. At the next corner, he wheeled into the parking lot of a gas station and cut the engine.

  He climbed out of the cab and waved to the attendant, Joe Knapp, a man who’d gone to school with him years before. Joe had been captain of the football team way back when and after school, when he’d had his leg crushed while working in the woods for Fitzpatrick Logging, Joe’s dreams of a career in football had been destroyed, as well. Kind of like Kevin. Only Joe had survived, married a hometown girl, Mary Beth Carter, and seemed happy enough with his wife and kids.

  Scowling to himself, Ben shoved the nozzle of the pump into the gas tank and listened as the liquid poured into his truck.

  He couldn’t trust Carlie. Couldn’t! Oh, but a part of him would love to. That same rebellious part that still wanted to kiss her senseless and make love to her forever.

  That thought caused him to start and he nearly let the gas overflow.

  “You’re losing it, Powell,” he growled to himself as he turned off the pump. With thoughts of Carlie trailing after him like a shadow, he walked inside the small Texaco station that had been on the corner of Hearst and Pine for as long as he could remember. The building had changed hands, but it still smelled of grease and stale cigarette smoke and oil.

  “Good to see you around here again,” Joe said as he took Ben’s credit card in his grimy fingers. “I thought you’d said adios to Gold Creek forever.”

  “So did I.”

  Joe flashed him a toothy smile as he ran Ben’s card through the verification machine. “So you feel like the prodigal son?”

  “Nope. Just the black sheep.”

  Joe laughed and Ben signed the receipt. The conversation turned to football. The usual stuff. If the 49ers were going to the Super Bowl the following season, or if L.A. had a better chance. As if it mattered.

  Later, as Ben drove away from the station and through the heart of town, he couldn’t remember any of the conversation. Retail buildings gave way to houses that bordered the eastern hills, but he didn’t notice any of the landmarks that had been a part of his hometown.

  Because of Carlie. Damn that woman! Why couldn’t he get her out of his head?

  Ben liked things cut-and-dried, clear and to the point and structured. That’s why he’d felt comfortable in the army, working his way up through the rank and file, and that’s why he’d planned to come back to Gold Creek, start his own business, settle down with a sensible small-town girl and raise his family. His future had seemed so clear.

  Until he’d seen Carlie again.

  And until he’d listened to her side of the story. Her lies. Or her truth?

  “Hell,” he growled as he turned into the drive of his little house that wasn’t far from the city limits of Gold Creek. Ben had rented the place from an elderly woman, Mrs. Trover, who lived at Rosewood Terrace in an apartment just down the hall from his father. Ben promised to keep the house up, including minor and major repairs, which he could deduct from the monthly rent. It wasn’t much, two bedrooms, living room, single bath, kitchen, laundry room and a basement that leaked in the winter, but it had become home and he was certain, when the time was right, he could probably buy the house, outbuildings and half acre of land from Mrs. Trover on a contract.

  He turned off the ignition and sat in the pickup for a second. The cottage needed more than a little repair—“TLC” he’d heard it called, but Ben knew it was just plain hard work. Even when it was brought up to code, the house wouldn’t be ritzy and Ben couldn’t picture Carlie living here with a tiny bathroom and a kitchen so small, only one person could work in it. Rubbing his jaw, he wondered why he kept trying to picture her in his future. She was all wrong for him. Kevin had told him as much long ago.

  He should have listened. Maybe then Kevin would still be alive and Ben wouldn’t walk around with a load of guilt on his shoulders for falling for his older brother’s girl.

  Trying to shove Carlie and all the emotional baggage she brought with her from his mind, he grabbed the sack of dog food he’d purchased earlier in the day and hauled the bag to the back door. “Honey, I’m home,” he said as he unlocked the door.

  Attila growled from the darkened interior.

  “Well, at least you still have your sweet disposition.”

  A deep-throated bark.

  “Come on, get out of here and do your business,” Ben said leaving the outside door open as he walked into the kitchen and found a mixing bowl. The dog padded after him, hackles raised, but not emitting a sound. “Go on. You don’t have to follow me around.” He sliced open the sack, poured the dry dog food into the bowl and set it on the kitchen floor.

  Attila just looked at him.

  “Go on. Dig in.” Ben waited and the dog slowly, as if he expected to be kicked or poisoned, cautiously approached the food. “Be paranoid if you want,” Ben said.

  The shepherd cocked his head, then hurried outside. Within seconds he was back, his nose deep in dog food.

  “That’s better.” Ben grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and walked into the living room. Flicking on the remote control to the television, he dropped into a chair near an old rolltop desk he’d shoved into the corner. The message light on his telephone was blinking. “Hopefully, this is about a dozen clients begging me to come work for them,” he said with a glance to the dog.

  Attila didn’t respond.

  He pressed the button, the tape rewound and a series of clicks were followed by the first message.

  “This is Bill with General Drywall. We can be at the house on Bitner next week on Tuesday. I’ll send a crew unless I hear from you.”

  The phone clicked again.

  “Ben?” a female voice asked. “This is Tracy. I saw you today at the restaurant and I...we, Randy and I...were wondering if you’d like to stop by for dinner tonight. Nothing special—but we’d love to have you.” She paused for a second, then said, “How about seven? And if I don’t hear from you by six, I’ll just figure you had other plans. It was great seeing you today. Hope you can make it.”

  He glanced at his watch. Five-forty-five. Why not have dinner with Tracy? A small-town girl. A woman who was content to live here with her son. Kevin’s son.

  Car
lie’s face flashed before his eyes and he felt like a Judas. But that was crazy. Even if she were telling the truth about her relationship with Kevin, she’d thrown him out of her house. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the receiver.

  He owed Carlie Surrett nothing!

  * * *

  “THIS IS YOUR uncle Ben,” Tracy said to a young redheaded freckle-faced boy. His hair was straight and fell over his forehead in a way that reminded Ben of Kevin a long, long time ago.

  Randy wrinkled his nose. “Uncle Ben? You mean like the guy on the rice box?”

  Ben laughed and stretched out his hand. “Not exactly,” he replied, shaking Randy’s hand.

  “Don’t give Ben a hard time,” Tracy gently chastised her son. They lived in a nice apartment in Coleville, as modern as Carlie’s was rustic. White rug, white walls, white appliances and white furniture with a few throw pillows of mauve and blue.

  “He’s not giving me a bad time,” Ben said. “What grade are you in?”

  “Fourth.”

  “Same as Nadine’s oldest boy,” Tracy said, turning back to the sink. “But they don’t see each other much since we don’t live in Gold Creek.”

  “Are you talking about John Warne?” Randy asked.

  “You know we are.”

  “He’s a creep.”

  Tracy visibly stiffened. “That’s not very nice—”

  “Hey, it’s the truth,” Randy said. “And I don’t care if he is my cousin because he’s a jerk.”

  “You don’t really know him.”

  “Well, I know Katie Osgood. I see her in Sunday school and she tells me all about John—like how he’s the biggest dweeb in the whole school. He’s always in the principal’s office.”

  “That’s enough, Randy,” Tracy said, managing a forced smile. “Why don’t you show Ben your baseball-card collection?”

  “He won’t want to see—”

  “Sure, I will,” Ben said, anxious to diffuse the tension between mother and son.

  Hanging his head, Randy led Ben down a short hallway to a small room covered with posters of baseball players. Within minutes, he’d opened several albums and was telling Ben about all the players. He was particularly proud of a few old cards of Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford, “you know, those old famous guys,” he said to Ben, his face lighting up. “My dad had these cards when he was a kid. Grandpa kept them for me.”

  Ben’s heart twisted. This boy was Kevin’s bastard, a kid George Powell had accepted. He spent half an hour with Randy and the cards before Tracy called from the kitchen, “How about something to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Coke!” Randy yelled back.

  “I was talking to Ben,” she replied, wiping her hands as she appeared in the doorway. “But I’ll get you something, too. By the way, it’s seven.” She glanced at Ben as Randy turned on a small black-and-white television. “There’s some sports show he always watches about this time. Come on into the kitchen.”

  While Randy settled back on his bed, his cards spread around him, his eyes glued to the little black-and-white screen, Ben followed Tracy back to the kitchen. She was a pretty woman, but as he watched her hips sway beneath her black skirt, he felt nothing.

  “Okay, the selection isn’t all that great but I’ve got beer and wine and...a bottle of Irish whiskey, I think.”

  “A beer’ll do,” he said, feeling suddenly awkward. The apartment was clean and neat, not a magazine out of place, and on a table near the couch was a gold-framed picture of Kevin, a picture Ben recognized as having been taken only a few weeks before his brother’s death. Ben stared at the photograph and felt that same mixture of pain and anger build in him as it always did when he was reminded of his older brother.

  “Belly up to the bar,” Tracy invited as she placed a bottle and empty glass on the counter that separated the kitchen from the eating area. She held up a frosty mug of dark soda. “I’ll run this down to His Highness and be back in a flash.”

  He drank his beer and watched her work in the kitchen. She was efficient and smiled and laughed a lot, but there were emotions that ran deep in her brown eyes, something false, as if the layer of lightheartedness she displayed covered up other, darker feelings. Her smile seemed a little forced and there was a hardness to her that bothered him.

  They ate at a little table by the sliding door and the food was delicious: steak, baked potatoes and steamed broccoli smothered in a packaged cheese sauce. She poured them each a glass of wine and made sure that Randy’s manners were impeccable. Ben had the feeling that the kid had been coached for hours. “No elbows,” she said when Randy set his arm on the table. “What did I say about your hat?” she asked, noticing the fact that Randy’s Giants’ cap was resting on his head. “Oh, Randy, you know better! Please...use the butter knife. That’s what it’s there for.”

  When Randy finally asked to be excused, Ben let out a silent sigh of relief. “He really is a good boy,” she said as Randy ambled down the hall.

  “Of course he is.”

  “Straight A’s and pitcher for his Little League team. They won the pennant last year.” She smiled, all filled with pride and Ben got an uneasy feeling that she was trying to sell the kid to him. “He’s in the school choir, too. Last year he had the lead in their little play. It wasn’t much, you understand, only third graders, but he was the one they chose. Probably because of his voice and the fact that he’s smart as a whip. I’ve been into that school five times this year already, asking them to move him up a grade or two in math. He’s bored with what they’re teaching.”

  Ben shoved his chair from the table. “Ever thought of private school?”

  She sighed. “All the time. But that takes money and, well, being a single mother, we don’t have a lot of extra cash.” She picked up her plate and when Ben tried to carry his to the sink, she waved him back in his chair. “Sit, sit. I can handle this.”

  “So can I.”

  “But you’ve been working all day.”

  “Haven’t you?”

  She smiled and seemed flustered. “Just let me do it, all right? It’s been a long time since I’ve had a man to pamper.”

  Warning bells went off in his head, but he ignored them. She was just trying to be nice. Nothing to worry about. She stacked the dishes in the sink and cut him a thick slab of chocolate cake.

  “Won’t Randy want some of this?” he asked, when she sliced a sliver for herself and sat back down at the table.

  “He’s in training. No sweets.”

  “But—”

  She shook her head and took a bite. “Baseball starts in a few weeks and tryouts are just around the corner. He’s got to be in shape. He’s lucky I let him have a soft drink tonight.”

  “He’s barely ten.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said, that underlying hardness surfacing in her eyes. “You, of all people, should understand. It’s kind of like being in the military. Randy wants to be the ace pitcher again this year and I told him that I’ll support him in that goal, but only if he works hard for it. No junk food. Lots of rest. Exercise. And he’s got to keep his grades up.”

  “And sing in the choir and do higher-level math,” Ben added, unable to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

  “Why not? He can do it all.”

  “When does he have a chance to be a little kid?”

  She sat on the couch and frowned when he slid into a white chair in the corner of the living room. “He is a little kid. A disciplined little kid.”

  “But when does he build forts and play in the woods and ride his bike and swim and—”

  “When he trains, he swims on the weekends in the Coleville pool and there are no woods right around here. Riding his bike is dangerous—too much traffic. Besides we have a stationary bike in my room. If he wants to work out—”

  “I’m not talking about working out. I’m talking about just hanging around,” Ben said, his insides clenching when he considered how much pressure the kid had to live up to.

  She
was about to argue, thought better of it and kicked off her high heels. Tucking her feet beneath her on the couch, she sipped her wine slowly. “I suppose it does look like Randy’s on a pretty tough regimen, doesn’t it?” Sighing, she ran the fingers of one hand through her hair. “And part of the reason is that it’s easier for me to have him on a schedule. I work two jobs and don’t have a lot of free time so I have to depend on other people to give him rides. I don’t want him to spend too much time alone—that’s not good—so I encourage him to participate and be with kids his own age.”

  “And win.”

  She smiled. “Because he can, Ben. He’s got so much potential.” Her eyes glazed for a second, she licked her lips, and she whispered, “Just like Kevin.”

  Ben’s stomach turned to stone. He suddenly realized why Tracy had never married; no one could compare to his brother. She didn’t give another man a chance. And over the years she’d created a myth about Kevin, the myth being that he was perfect.

  “Kevin was an average student, Tracy.”

  “He had a basketball scholarship.”

  “That was taken away when he couldn’t keep up his grades.”

  “He just had some bad breaks,” she said quickly. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “I can’t.” He stood, glad for an excuse to leave. “I’ve got a million calls to make before it gets too late. But thanks.”

  “Anytime,” she said as if she meant it. She walked to him and touched his arm with featherlight fingers. “The door’s always open for you, Ben. It does Randy a world of good. He...he needs a...man. Just wait a minute and I’ll get him. He’ll want to say good-night.”

  She hurried down the hall and a few minutes later, she practically pushed Randy forward to shake Ben’s hand.

  The boy licked his lips nervously. “Glad to meet you—” he shifted his eyes to his mother, struggled for the words and added “—Uncle Ben.”

  “You, too, Randy. Maybe I’ll see you at the ball field.” Ben clasped the kid’s hand.