Forever After

by Catherine Anderson

  Tom blinked. “I took an oath to uphold law and order. If necessary, I would arrest my own mother.”

  “Why don’t you go do that?” Heath demanded. “Maybe then, your father will understand why you’re such a pimple on my ass.”

  The intercom on Heath’s desk buzzed. He stepped over to take the call. “Yes, Jenny?”

  The dispatcher’s voice crackled over the speaker. “I’ve got a hysterical old lady on the line. She says there’s some woman parading around across the street from her house, stripped stark naked except for a red garter belt, black stockings, and three-inch heels. She’s afraid her husband’s going to have a heart attack.”

  A smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Heath glanced over at his recalcitrant subordinate. “Deputy Moore has been angling for some excitement this morning. He’ll be more than happy to get right on it.”

  Meredith turned, hung up the phone and bent to jot a note in her appointment book. She’d set up sixty-three shampooing demonstrations today. On an average, thirty percent of those people would buy shampooers, which meant a nice little chunk of commission for her. She leafed through the pages, looking for the following day’s date. Then she set to work calling to confirm demonstration appointments with customers.

  Halfway through the list of numbers, Meredith paused in her work and glanced out the window above her desk to check on Sammy, who was playing in the yard. The child was happily occupied with Goliath, who sat patiently at the little girl’s side, a frilly doll bonnet cocked at a silly angle over one ear and a pair of hot pink sunglasses riding on his broad nose.

  Meredith smiled and shook her head. She was about to dial another phone number when she heard Heath’s Bronco pull into the drive. This morning when he dropped off Goliath, he’d told her he planned to stop by the building supply store for more lumber on his way home. She really should go help him unload it, she thought. But after his comment last night about her needing a husband, she was more determined than ever to keep her distance from him. And to make plenty of money so he could never use her poor earning power as a reason to talk about marriage again.

  Goliath began barking. Meredith glanced up. It sounded as if another car had pulled into her driveway. She rose from her chair to peer through the parted curtains at the front window. Heath had just removed an armload of lumber from atop his Bronco. Squinting against the sunlight, he turned to gaze at the white van that had pulled to a stop behind his vehicle. The front doors of the van both opened, and two men spilled out, both of them wearing white shirts and dark slacks. The passenger rushed around to the van’s rear doors while the driver walked toward Heath.

  “Bill,” she heard Heath say. “What brings you out this way?”

  Though Heath seemed to know the man, his greeting was cool. Since Meredith had never seen either of the men before and she still had calls to make, she nearly turned away. But then she noticed the blue lettering, KTYX, on the side of the van, which was the logo of the local television station. Her stomach clenched, and her heart felt as if it leaped clear into her throat. She raced back through the house to go get Sammy. Unfortunately, by the time she got outside, the man who had stepped to the back of the van already had his camera rolling.

  Oh, God. Trying her best to appear calm, Meredith walked across the yard, picked up Sammy, and returned to the house, Goliath trotting beside her. Why were they here? As she let the screen slam behind her, she felt as if her legs might fold.

  Calm down. Heath is always being hounded by newsmen. They’ve come to interview him. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you.

  That thought made Meredith feel slightly better. No one in Wynema Falls was interested in doing a story on her. She was just another shadowy blur in the background.

  Meredith took Sammy to her bedroom, dragged out a puzzle, and got the child interested in putting it together. Only then did she go back to the living room to peer through the crack of the curtains. To combat the late afternoon stuffiness, she’d opened the windows earlier, which allowed her to hear as well as see what was going on without being noticed.

  “Bill, please,” she heard Heath say. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d leave. For old times sake, if for no other reason.”

  “I can’t do that, Heath. I’ve been assigned this story, and it’s my job to report on it. Please don’t take it personally.”

  “How can I not take it personally when you bring up something like that?” Heath glanced toward the television camera. “Are you filming?”

  The man named Bill nodded. Heath’s shoulders stiffened. “Then I have only two words to say: no comment.”

  Bill shoved the microphone he held toward Heath. “Sheriff Masters, this is the anniversary of your sister’s death,” he said, his tone becoming formal. “According to the accident report, you were driving the vehicle when she was killed. Is that true?”

  “No comment,” Heath said icily as he turned his back on the camera.

  Bill and the cameraman dogged Heath’s heels. “Sheriff Masters,” Bill called, throwing his voice as if to span a distance, “we’ve recently learned from a very reliable source that you were driving under the influence the night your sister died. Would you care to comment on that?”

  Heath spun around, his dark features drawn with anger. Meredith realized she’d gasped aloud and pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “There were no charges filed against you for drunk driving or vehicular manslaughter,” Bill pressed. “Can you explain why? Driving under the influence was against the law at that time. Was it not? Just as it is now?”

  Heath began to unload the lumber again while the reporter followed him around, shoving the microphone in his face.

  “Do you deny that you broke the law?”

  Heath dropped an armload of two-by-fours on the ground next to the porch, then stalked back to the Bronco. From her vantage point, Meredith could see the tendons standing out in his neck as his jaw grew tighter.

  “You were only nineteen at the time. We realize it must be very difficult for you to recall the terrible events of that night, let alone to talk about them. But the citizens of this county have a right to know the truth. Were you driving under the influence that night? Were you, therefore, responsible for the accident that occurred?”

  “No comment.”

  “Your father is a very wealthy man, Sheriff. Did he, by chance, bribe the authorities to cover this up so no charges would be brought against you?”

  No answer.

  “Is it true?”

  “No comment! Don’t you understand plain English? Leave me the hell alone!”

  “Sheriff Masters, your refusal to comment leaves us with no choice but to draw our own conclusions,” Bill said loudly. “Is it not true that you were responsible for your sister’s death, that you did, in fact, murder her? And, due to your father’s intervention, walked away, scot-free?”

  Meredith’s hands ached from gripping the edge of the counter. The only sounds in the kitchen were the labored rasp of her breathing, the obscenely loud tick of the clock, and the hum of the refrigerator. A few seconds ago, she had seen Heath stride past the kitchen window toward the backyard. Now a layer of red dust, kicked up by the television station’s van as it peeled from her driveway, hung over the lawn like a pall.

  Oh, God. She closed her eyes, her gorge rising as she recalled the cruelly flung taunts of the reporters and Heath’s heated responses. No comment. Those two words should have revealed nothing. Yet they had. Pain, so very much pain.

  Suddenly so many things seemed clear to her. Heath’s dedication to law enforcement. His passion for working with teenagers. The rehab programs he’d started. His determination to reduce teenage highway fatalities, even if it meant sacrificing his career.

  At the back of her mind, Meredith knew she had plenty of her own problems to deal with, that she should be more concerned about Sammy being seen on television than about Heath. But, somehow, knowing that and convincing herself of it were two differe
nt things. Is it not true that you were responsible for your sister’s death, that you did, in fact, murder her?

  Her palms had gone sticky with sweat. She drew her hands from the counter, working her cramped fingers as she walked to the utility porch. The back door didn’t creak as she opened it. The screen, also repaired, swung easily on its new hinges. When she stepped outside, the porch didn’t groan in protest. Heath. Everywhere she looked, everything she touched reminded her of all that he had done for them. Is it not true that you did, in fact, murder her? She couldn’t let him deal with that alone, the devil take the cameras. There would be plenty of opportunity to worry about that later.

  She found Heath out behind the woodshed. Unaware of her approach, he was leaning against the trunk of a gnarly oak, his gaze fixed on some distant spot on the horizon. The mountains, possibly? She wondered if he were imagining himself far away from here, insulated from his troubles. She did that sometimes, taking a hiatus from reality.

  “Heath?”

  He didn’t seem surprised by the sound of her voice, merely angled her a look over his muscular shoulder. He still wore his uniform shirt. She guessed he had stopped here to unload the lumber before going home to change. She seldom saw him in lawman garb. Until now, she’d never wondered why. Had he sensed that seeing his badge and gun made her uneasy? That was so like him, always sensitive to her and Sammy’s feelings.

  A tight, choking sensation filled her throat. “Oh, Heath, I’m so sorry. I, um…heard what that reporter said. And I’m—” She broke off and gulped. “I thought you might need to talk.”

  “What about?” he asked in a voice gone gruff with emotion. “Arkansas, maybe?”

  There was no mistaking his meaning. As long as she kept secrets from him, he would feel uncomfortable sharing his with her. She guessed she could understand that, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

  She hugged herself, rubbed her arms. It was a warm evening, yet she felt a chill, probably from the frigid blast of his eyes. Stupid. She shouldn’t have come out here. There were walls between them, impenetrable walls.

  “I’m sorry. I just thought—maybe—you’d want to—you know…unload.”

  His gaze remained fixed on hers, relentless and denuding. Seconds passed. Long, seemingly endless seconds. The wind picked up, ruffling his dark hair and plastering his shirt to the hard contours of his torso. He looked as solid as the tree against which he leaned, able to withstand almost anything. But even giant oaks could fall.

  Still hugging herself, she turned to go.

  “Don’t,” he said hoarsely.

  She looked back, not entirely sure if he was asking her to stay. What she saw made her feel like Lot’s wife, turned into a pillar of salt for glancing back.

  There were tears in his eyes.

  “It’s true,” he bit out. “I killed her. As surely as if I’d held a gun to her head and pulled the trigger, I killed her. You still want to stay?”

  Meredith had already guessed that much, and her heart broke for him. He’d been only nineteen years old, the reporter had said. That was a long time ago. But Meredith knew from experience that one monumental mistake could haunt a person for the rest of his life. There was no going back to change things. You just had to live with it. Her mistake had been in saying two little words: “I do.” His had been to climb behind the wheel of a vehicle while he was under the influence.

  Brief seconds in time. A momentary lapse in good judgment. Life was like a blackboard, your actions the chalk marks, and God supplied you with no eraser.

  “I’m so sorry, Heath.”

  It was all she could think of to say.

  His mouth twisted, the slashes in his lean cheeks cutting deep and making him look suddenly haggard. He dragged in a breath, sounding as if he were inhaling ground glass.

  “It’s always hard for me on this date,” he rasped out. “Stupid, right? It’s been almost twenty years. It shouldn’t even bother me anymore.”

  If that had been the case, he wouldn’t have been the man he was. A caring man who felt things deeply. Judging by the look in his eyes, he would take the memories with him to the grave. That alone was punishment enough. Those reporters dredging it up had been cruel. Anything to get a story and jack their ratings up.

  “Some things never stop hurting,” she said softly. “The fact that it still bothers you tells me you’re a good person, not a stupid one.”

  “Good?”

  He moved to brace his elbow against the tree and cupped a hand over his eyes. His broad shoulders jerked. The sob that followed was so awful—so deep and wrenching—that she took an involuntary step toward him.

  “Jesus!” he cried brokenly, the word both a prayer and a curse.

  She could tell that he was humiliated beyond bearing that he was losing control in front of her. She didn’t know whether she should stand fast and watch, which would undoubtedly humiliate him even more, or if she should go back in the house.

  “Oh, Jeee—sus!”

  Meredith couldn’t stand it. She moved closer and touched his arm. He flinched as if she’d burned him.

  “Go!” he ordered harshly. “I don’t—want you—to see me—like this.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, tightening her hand on his arm. “I can’t.”

  He grabbed her then. Violently, roughly, his arms coming around her so forcefully that they slammed the breath out of her. Then, like steel vises, they clamped shut, flattening the soft roundness of her body against the inflexible flatness of his. One of his hands curled over her shoulder, his fingers compressing with such strength that she feared her bones might break.

  “Bill’s right. I murdered her!” he cried, the words shuddering up from his chest. “Even my own father said as much. I murdered her!”

  “Oh, Heath, no…it was an accident.” She knew this man too well to doubt that, even for an instant. “Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t.”

  He wept then as only a strong man can, every tear wrung from him like beads of moisture from a barely damp cloth. Meredith clung to him. It was all she knew to do, simply to hold on until the storm passed. Every time he sobbed, she felt it—a deep, tearing pain low in her center. The rigidity of his body was frightening, his embrace almost painful.

  When at last his arms loosened around her, she felt bruised, as though she’d been sandwiched between two cement slabs. He gentled his hand on her shoulder, lightly caressing the throbbing pressure points where his fingers had dug in. She could almost feel him returning to awareness, inch by torturous inch.

  “Christ. Did I hurt you?”

  It was so like him to think first of someone else. She kept her face buried against his shirt. “I’m fine.”

  He ran a hand lightly over her back. “I’m sorry, honey. I—” He broke off, a residual shudder wracking his body. “I lost it there for a minute. I’m sorry.”

  Meredith eased back to look up at him. His burnished face was tracked with tears, his dark lashes spiked. She ached to trail her fingertips over his cheeks and smooth his hair, to comfort him as she might have Sammy. But being embraced made her feel claustrophobic, and she sensed that he wouldn’t appreciate her trying to mother him.

  “We all lose it sometimes,” she said, stepping back as she spoke to escape the loop of his arms.

  He let his hands fall to his sides. “Yeah, I guess.” His larynx bobbed, the constriction of his throat making a hollow plunk. “Some of us lose it worse than others.” He tried to laugh, a bitter sound that conveyed embarrassment rather than humor, then jabbed his fingers through his hair. “Sorry about that. It’s, ah, been a bitch of a day.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. That was a pretty ugly scene that took place out there. Reporters!” She hugged herself again and rubbed her arms. “They’re like sharks, aren’t they? Give them the scent of blood, and they’re merciless.”

  “Yeah, especially when they have an ax to grind.” He gave a hoarse, humorless laugh. “I have to hand it to him. He
waited to take his shot when he knew it would do the worst damage.”

  “Bill, you mean?”

  He pressed his back to the tree, resting his head against the bark and closing his eyes. After a moment, he said, “He said the station got wind of the story from a very reliable source. That’s an understatement and not exactly true. It was an inside source, namely Bill himself. I knew he’d spring it on me, sooner or later. We used to be friends, way back when. He was there the night she was killed.”

  “And he waited all these years to come public?” Meredith asked incredulously.

  “He probably would have carried the knowledge to his grave,” Heath told her. “But four years ago, I arrested him for drunk driving. Afterward, his whole life fell apart. He’d been a closet alcoholic for years, I guess. When I pulled him over, he’d been on a downhill skid, drinking more heavily, having problems at home. When it all came out, his popularity with the viewers plummeted, and he lost his job as evening news anchorman at another television station. After seventeen years of marriage, not even his wife stood by him. Like most alcoholics, instead of blaming his drinking problem, he blamed me. Still does. I’m surprised it took him this long to get his revenge.”

  Meredith dug her toe into the layer of decomposing leaves that had fallen from the oak last fall. The pungent smell of earth and decay drifted up to her. Great garden compost, she thought inanely. God help her, she didn’t know what to say to him.

  “Her name was Laney,” he said huskily.

  His words drifted between them, leaden with sadness and so sharp at the edges they seemed to lacerate.

  “She was only seventeen.” He dropped his chin and opened his eyes, which had gone dark with suffering. Meredith had a feeling that he was no longer even with her, that the essence of him had departed and traveled back through the years to another time and another place. “She died nine days before her eighteenth birthday. She never had a chance to fall in love, get married, have kids. Just like that, her life was snuffed out.”