Eric tried to relax his fists. What the hell kind of father left his daughter all alone out here, with no phone and no other way home? Hadn’t the bastard ever heard of sexual assault? “You come with me and Jake,” he said. “We’ll take you home.”
“But what if my dad—”
“You can use my phone and let him know.” If it were up to him, Eric would let the son of a bitch make a run out here. Maybe finding his daughter gone would put the fear of God into him.
She grabbed her tote bag and followed him to the parking lot. “Wow,” she said, when she saw the cruiser. Jake had already gotten in the passenger side and was trying, when Eric opened the back door to let Iola in, to make himself invisible through immobility.
Eric handed the girl his phone and climbed into the driver’s seat. He unlatched the reinforced Plexi barrier and slid it to one side, so Iola could talk to them. She leaned forward and looked around, big-eyed. “I’ve never been in a police car before.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Buckle up.”
Jacob shot him a glance without moving his head. “Ooo,” Iola said. “There aren’t any door handles back here.” Eric started up the cruiser and pulled out of the lot. “This is really cool. Thank you so much for giving me a lift, Mr. McCrea.”
Eric shot Jacob a look. Jake stared stonily ahead. “Where do you live, Iola?”
“Mountain View Park. Off Sunset Drive.” About as far west of the town as the high school was east. Eric drove with half his attention on the traffic, half on Iola’s call to what must have been her dad’s office. “He didn’t?” she said. “Okay. No, I’m fine. Thanks.” She hung up. “My dad’s a doctor. I thought maybe … there might have been an emergency.”
“No?”
“Nope. He’s not on call. He left a couple hours ago.” Her voice had the wavering quality of someone trying not to show hurt. Eric’s hands tightened on the wheel. Bastard.
Mountain View Park was a new development, built when the skyrocketing real estate prices in Albany and Saratoga began to drive families farther and farther up the Northway. In exchange for a two-hour daily commute, they got sprawling, shining-windowed houses tucked in among trees well away from the quiet dead-end road.
“This is it,” Iola said, and he turned up a broad, square-paved drive leading to a brick-and-timber Tudor manor that Henry the Eighth would have been right at home in. He shook his head. If you want to know what God thinks of money, his dad would say, just look at who He gives it to.
“Is anybody home?”
“I have a key,” Iola said.
Eric got out and released the back door, leaving the cruiser running. “I’ll walk you up.” Inside, unseen, Jake let out a low moan.
They were almost to the front door when it swung open. An older man in rumpled khakis and a half-buttoned shirt came out to the top step. “Iola?” He looked at Eric, alarmed. “What happened?”
“Dad!” Iola stomped up the steps. “You were supposed to pick me up two hours ago!” Her voice broke. “Where were you?”
“I … I…” Iola’s father’s eyes shifted back and forth. He looked like an animal pinned in a trap. Cheating, Eric thought. He forgot his kid while he was banging the girlfriend. “I’m sorry, baby girl.” Stillman wrapped his arms around Iola, who stood stiff and unyielding. “I must have gotten my schedule mixed up. I’m so, so sorry.”
You sure are. “Iola,” Eric said. “Can I have a word with your father?”
Iola wiped at her face. “Okay. I’m going to go inside and call Mum.” She drew herself up with all the dignity a fifteen-year-old could muster. “Thank you again for bringing me home, Mr. McCrea.” She glared at her father, then swept past him into the house.
Stillman rubbed his close-cropped hair. “Thank you, Officer. I don’t know how I dropped the ball on that one.”
Eric stepped closer. Stillman didn’t smell drunk. Pills, maybe? Doctors could write their own prescriptions. “I don’t know if you’re new to the area, Dr. Stillman, but despite our quaint, small-town look, we’re not crime-free.”
“I know that. My family’s lived in Millers Kill for generations, for God’s sake.”
“Then you ought to know that there have been several sexual assaults of young women over the years. You ought to know that a girl was gang-raped on high school property once. I worked that investigation. I saw what they did to her.”
The color drained from Stillman’s face.
“You ought to know enough not to leave your teenaged daughter alone out there with night coming on and no way to contact you.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“I don’t know what you were doing instead of being a father, and frankly, I don’t care. Get your act together.”
Stillman’s mouth opened. Closed. He spun on his heel and vanished into the house, slamming the door behind him.
Goddamn rich guy. He probably sat on his ass watching a wide-screen TV while his daughter waited for him. Yet guys like Eric had to push their kids to run in order to have a hope of sending them to college. Life was no damn fair, and it made him mad. So mad, he could—he stalked back to the cruiser, the last hot rays of the sunset matching the red pounding in his head.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 20
Tomato juice. Worcester sauce. Onion salt. Celery. Clare sat the ingredients on the counter and retrieved her big glass pitcher from the cupboard. She banged through the swinging kitchen doors and headed for the foot of the stairs, trying not to favor her right ankle. She was working to rebuild its strength, and limping around babying it wasn’t going to help.
“You want a virgin Bloody Mary?” she yelled up the stairs.
“God, no. Just coffee. I hate tomato juice.”
“More for me.” She snagged the vodka off the drinks tray and carried it into the kitchen. She removed a package of paper-wrapped sausages from the freezer and started them defrosting in the microwave while she mixed up a Bloody. She glanced at the clock hanging over her bare pine table. Glanced at the pitcher. It was noon in Nova Scotia. Close enough. She poured herself a tall, stiff one, swizzled it with a celery stick, and drank half the contents in one pull.
She smiled as she heard the shower go on. Russ had arrived unexpectedly last night, late from patrolling. Woke her up, despite the sleeping pill she had taken. Woke her up again at dawn, his hands moving over her, slow, intense, the two of them gathering like storm clouds over the mountains until they exploded: heat lightning and rolling thunder. She had dropped back into a deep, dreamless sleep, not surfacing until close to eleven. She stretched, snapping her spine. Lord, she loved Saturdays. She’d never really appreciated them before.
She threw the sausages into an enameled pan and started the coffee brewing in her press. Switched on the radio and refreshed her Bloody Mary. Pulled a carton of eggs from the icebox and turned around. She saw the face through the kitchen door at the same time she heard the knocking. She shrieked, clutched at her robe, dropped the eggs.
The door swung open. Anne Vining-Ellis burst into the kitchen. “Oh, Clare, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right?”
Clare felt something wet and viscous against her bare foot. She looked down. Three broken eggs were oozing across her cheap pressed-vinyl floor.
“Oh, God, I did startle you.” Anne snatched a dishcloth off the rack and turned on the cold water. “I should have—”
“Clare, are you okay? I heard—” Russ came though the swinging doors before Clare could say anything. At least, she thought stupidly, he was wearing a towel slung around his waist. She had discovered that wasn’t always a given.
“—called first.” Anne’s voice was faint.
Outside, birds caroled and chirped in the rustling trees. On the radio, the audience of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me was laughing. A puff of hot August air rolled into the kitchen. From somewhere deep within her, Clare’s southern upbringing rose to the occasion. “Russ,” she said, “I believe you know Anne Vining-Ellis.”
&nbs
p; Russ’s lips twitched. “Clare, why don’t you shut the door.”
She did so, leaving a trail of egg-white droplets across the floor. Anne abruptly twisted the running water off. She squeezed the dishcloth into the sink. “Um.” She waved the cloth toward the egg carton. “Better get that up before it dries.”
Russ looked at Clare. “Is it all right if I go get dressed?” She nodded. “Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He sniffed. “Whatever you’re making, it smells great.”
Clare and Anne both watched in silence as Russ disappeared through the swinging doors. Clare listened to the thump and creak of his footsteps going up the stairs. She turned toward Anne. Chair of the stewardship committee. Important donor to the church. Parishioner. Friend. She hoped. She took a deep breath. “Well…”
Anne shook her head. “Oh. My. God.”
Clare’s heart sank.
“He is totally hot. Even with the bullet scars.”
“What?”
“What is he, fifty? He’s got to be close to my age, right?” She fanned herself. “Let me tell you, my husband sure doesn’t look like that in a towel.”
“What?”
Anne dropped the wet cloth on the counter and crossed to Clare. She hugged her. “Oh, Clare. It’s not exactly a surprise. I mean, yeah, seeing him here half naked was definitely a surprise, but the fact that you’re doing more than meeting for lunch at the diner isn’t.” She released Clare, grinning. “Besides, everyone knows priests and ministers don’t have sex. So I’ll just assume his shower is broken and he was borrowing yours.”
Clare buried her face in her hands. “I think I need another drink.”
“I’ll join you.”
Clare took down a second tall glass and filled it to the brim while Anne mopped up the broken eggs. “So.” She stood and traded the eggy cloth for a Bloody Mary. “Is this a new thing? I mean, since you’ve been away for a year and a half.”
“When I found out I was being deployed, we…” Clare made a vague gesture. “We only had two weeks, though, and everything was crazy, with me trying to take care of all the details at St. Alban’s and get ready to go and all.” She looked into her drink. “This feels very new. I mean, we’ve known each other for how many years now? But we’ve never actually been out on a date.”
“What are you using for birth control?”
“Good Lord.” Clare could feel her cheeks turning red.
Anne pulled out one of the ladder-back chairs and sat at the pine table. “I’m a doctor. I’m concerned.”
Clare swallowed a large gulp of her Bloody Mary. “I’m on the pill.”
“That’s foresighted of you.”
“I’ve been on for years. Erratic periods and army flight schedules don’t mix.” She dropped into another chair and covered her eyes. “I cannot believe I’m discussing this with you.”
“Then make an appointment and go talk about it with your regular doctor. I know you have this thing about medical treatment, but—”
“Anne, what did you come here for?”
Anne paused. “Sorry.” She took the celery stick out of her drink. Tapped it on the rim of the glass. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk about other people’s issues than your own.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
Anne looked up at her, smiling a little. “I just bet you do.” She laid the celery stick on the table. “It’s about Will.”
“What about Will?”
“You … know what happened to him.”
“Yes. I’d heard. I haven’t seen him since I’ve been back, though.”
“Of course you haven’t. No one has. He doesn’t go anywhere. He doesn’t do anything. He lets us drag him to physical therapy and to the orthopedist, but he refuses to go anywhere else. Remember how he loved to play his guitar? We’ve encouraged him to get back together with his old band. We’ve offered to pay for shop classes over at ACC—you know how he was always fooling around with cars.”
Clare nodded.
“Nothing. He won’t do anything.”
“Is he acting depressed?”
“No! I mean, not to my face. If he has to interact with anyone, he behaves as if everything’s fine. He cracks jokes, he carries on a conversation, but it’s all an act. When no one’s around … I can hear him, in his room. Just sitting there. No music. No movement. Like a machine that’s been turned off.”
Clare laid her hand open on the table. Anne took it. “I’ve tried to talk to him about seeing a psychiatrist, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Can you place him in treatment? Without his consent?”
“Only if he’s a danger to himself or to others. And I’m afraid—” Her voice broke. “I’m so afraid that by the time he shows he’s a danger to himself it will be too late.”
“How can I help?”
“Will you come talk to him? Not officially or formally. Just come for dinner and then, you know, casually talk to him.”
“Of course, but Anne, I’m not a trained mental health professional. If you think he’s suicidal—”
Anne shook her head. “I don’t think it’s his mind. I think his soul has been wounded, and souls are your profession.”
Clare held out her other hand, and Anne squeezed both of them, hard. There was a polite throat clearing at the doorway. Russ stood there, barefoot, in jeans and an untucked shirt. “Am I intruding?”
“No.” Anne released Clare’s hands and stood up. “I am.” She smiled at Russ. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your brunch, Chief Van Alstyne.”
“I think you ought to call me Russ, all things considering.”
“You got it. Clare? Tonight? Six o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
Anne opened the door, letting in another puff of warm air. “Thanks. Sorry for the eggs and all. As for you”—she pointed to Russ—“if you’re going to eat this woman’s food and run up her water bill, the least you can do is take her out on a date.”
The door clicked shut behind her. In the kitchen, the coffee press whistled faintly and the sausages popped in the skillet. Russ looked at her. “No more sleeping over.”
“Noooo!” She stood up, nearly knocking over the remains of her Bloody Mary.
“Yes. We’ve gotten away with it for eight weeks. That was too damn close for comfort.”
Clare flung an arm toward the door. “Anne’s fine with it! She’s happy for me.”
“Dr. Anne’s fine with it because she’s your friend. What if it had been one of the conservative guys on the vestry, like whatsis-name, with the scarf?”
“Sterling Sumner.”
“How do you think he would have reacted? What if it had been Elizabeth de Groot?”
Clare winced. Her deacon, who was tasked with keeping Clare on the straight and narrow, had a serious thing for clerical reverence and priestly authority. “She’d be on the phone to the bishop right now.”
“Damn right she would—and I don’t think his reaction would be ‘Fine, I’m so happy for you.’” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Would it?”
She shook her head against his chest. “It’s not fair.”
“It’s your organization, darlin’. I may not be a member, but I know we gotta play by the rules.”
“But I sleep better with you here!” It was true. She had used prayer and sleeping pills and warm milk and brandy, but the only thing that centered and settled her was Russ. Curled against the warm solidity of his back, she could let down her guard. She was safe.
When did it stop being safe to fall asleep? She shuddered.
He tightened his hold on her. “Just for a while.”
“It’s not going to stop being an issue.”
“It will if we’re married.”
Married. He had asked her once, the night they had found out she was leaving for Iraq. It was a spur-of-the-moment proposal, an age-old instinct to seize the moment when war was howling outside the door. She had turned him down, gambling that they would have a secon
d chance. Confident that when he truly put his wife’s death behind him, they would both be ready.
“Clare?” His lips were curved slightly, but his eyes were wary. He was, she realized, unsure of himself. It wasn’t an expression she was used to seeing on Russ Van Alstyne’s face.
“It’s just … we haven’t talked about that. Marriage.”
He jammed his hands into his jeans pockets. “We have to be realistic. Living together isn’t going to be an option.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She was barefoot, wearing her old summer pajamas. Sausages sizzled and popped in the skillet. NPR had moved on to Car Talk. Even at her most down-to-earth, this wasn’t what she envisioned when she thought of a proposal. “I mean we haven’t discussed the issues. The details. Marriage is a big, huge deal.”
His mouth quirked. “Believe me, I take marriage very seriously.”
She flushed. She of all people had reason to know “divorce” wasn’t in his vocabulary. Which, when you got down to it, was the reason for the sinking feeling in her stomach. The fact he was mentioning marriage for the first time after being caught with his pants down smelled unpleasantly like shotgun wedding. With her vestry, instead of her father, holding the 12-gauge. Russ loved her. She knew that. She just didn’t know if in some deep well of emotion he was still choosing Linda over her. “Maybe this isn’t the time or place for a big ‘what do we want out of marriage’ discussion.”
He got that expression again. The uncertain one. “Is there that much to discuss? ’Cause I can tell you what I want in under five words. You as my wife.” He shrugged. “The rest of it, I figure we’ll make up as we go along. That’s pretty much how it goes, in my experience.”
“Why do you want to get married? I mean, other than the sex thing.”
“There has to be more than sex?” He grinned. “It’s not because I’m chomping at the bit to be the preacher’s husband, I can guarantee you that.” She laughed a little. He ran his hands up her arms and rested them on her shoulders. “I want to be married because I like those easy-to-understand, boring definitions. Husband. Wife. I want to be married because life is short, and I want to spend whatever I have left of it with you, every day, every night. I want to be married so that everything I have and everything I am is yours, and everything of you is mine. And I want to be married so I can lay you out on the dining room table if I feel like it and have you six ways from Sunday in the middle of the afternoon and if one of your parishioners walks in on us, it’s tough titties for them.”
One Was a Soldier Page 11