Peter wrote for a minute, then looked up. “Remember, I don’t know you and I never met Danny. Tell me about your time together. What was Danny like? Will that be too hard for you?”
Hard? Yes, it would be hard to think back to those days, Nina admitted, but Peter was right. He didn’t know them, had no knowledge of their history. If he was to be any help, he’d have to know everything she remembered.
“I can do that,” Nina answered but even as she spoke she thought of a way to give him a better understanding. “I have my scrapbook with pictures; that might help more.”
“Do you mind showing it to me? Pictures can make clear what words never will.”
Nina didn’t answer, just went to the bookcase in the corner and pulled down the red plaid book that held her memories and took it back to him. She opened the cover to the last photograph in the book. “This was our wedding picture, taken right after the ceremony and about an hour before Danny vanished. It’s how he looked the last time I saw him.”
Staring down at the faces caught in that transitional moment, Nina was struck by how young, how terribly vulnerable the two people in the picture looked. A band of silk petals hid half of her short, brown curls. Beside her, tall and blond, Danny smiled, his eyes hidden behind the tinted lenses of his glasses. The white jacket of his linen suit blended into the white of her simple dress. Almost as if we really were one person.
“No satin and lace, cascading roses, or troops of bridesmaids in baby blue gowns?” Peter asked in a quiet voice.
Nina shook her head. “Every girl dreams of her wedding, wants to look the picture-perfect bride, but sometimes it just isn’t in the cards. Danny has health problems, allergies and a lingering irregularity with his heart from rheumatic fever when he was a baby. He picks up every germ that comes close, and any illness is dangerous for him, so he stays out of crowds. We only had about twenty people at the church. And no flowers, because he starts choking and wheezing when he gets around them. Special cake, too, without eggs. He can’t tolerate eggs. The wedding was simple, but it was very nice.” She turned back to the beginning of the book. Pages of photographs brought back a flood of memories, things she’d not thought about in a long time.
Peter caught one page before she turned it. “Where was this one taken? Isn’t that the T-Bird?”
Nina glanced at the photo and smiled. “That’s Uncle Eldon’s place, the car museum out on the highway. That shot was made the day Danny got the T-Bird. See the grin on his face?”
As Peter examined the picture he asked, “Where did you and Danny meet?”
Nina closed her eyes, remembering that day. “At Uncle Eldon’s place. I was in high school. Danny and his mother had just moved here. He couldn’t go to school because of the health problems. He had a tutor who got him through his classes. But he was in love with cars. He’d heard about the museum and came to see what Uncle Eldon had. I helped out after school, answering the phone and running errands. We met, became friends, and, well, there just never was anyone else for either of us.”
“High school sweethearts?” Peter’s question called her back from her memories.
“I guess you’d say that. We were high school age. I was fifteen and he was not quite seventeen when we met. At first it was just for fun, being around the cars at the museum, getting our own licenses, watching car events in our area, learning to drive in the competitions and participating in them. Then dates, real ones, going out together to see a movie, playing Scrabble at home with my folks, Danny coming for family picnics and parties. We knew we were meant to be together; we always knew.”
“But you only married two years ago.” Peter’s voice made the statement a question.
Nina left her chair to close the curtains and turn on another lamp. Darkness had filled the room as evening deepened. “We had to wait,” she answered. “My parents died in an accident my last year of high school. I’d promised them I’d finish college before Danny and I married. I couldn’t go back on that. And Danny, well, he wasn’t physically able to take on college. He planned to work with Uncle Eldon, learn more about managing the museum and restoring the cars, so he’d have some real work to do when I finished school. Money wasn’t going to be a problem. When Danny turned twenty-five, he’d come into the trust fund his dad left for him. We’d never have to worry about that. I wanted to teach, Danny loved being at the museum, and waiting was just the sensible thing to do. He turned twenty-five two weeks before we married. We were going to Dallas to sign all the documents so the lawyers would turn over his money.” She pulled the long drape over the front window and came back to her armchair. “More coffee?”
Peter shook his head. “Not if I’m going to sleep tonight. You make fine coffee, Nina.” He turned to a fresh page in the notebook. “Now what did the police say after Danny disappeared? Wealthy young man vanishes on his wedding day, that must have made the local constabulary hustle.”
Pain gripped her, a pain almost as unbearable now, two years later, as it had been that bright summer day when her dreams shattered. “You might think so,” she began, “but they weren’t called in for almost three days.”
“What!” Astonishment widened Peter’s eyes. He held up a hand to stop her words. “Did you say three days? Or did you mean three hours?”
A remnant of anger made Nina dig her fingers into the worn upholstery of her chair. She drew a hard breath, traced the outline of a faded acanthus leaf in the print fabric, and finally looked up at him. “No, I said—and meant—three days. Sheriff Hayes was more inclined to listen to Danny’s mother, Marigold, than to a wife of one hour. Marigold was certain, still is, for that matter, that Danny just got cold feet, decided he wasn’t really ready for marriage, and took off. No sign of violence where he’d left the car, to suggest he’d been attacked or kidnapped. The car was gone, he was gone, and so was the bag he’d packed. But my bags, my pink suitcases that were his wedding gift to me, were neatly stacked beside the fence, in plain sight. So Marigold insisted we not involve the police. She was sure Danny would come back after he thought things over. She said to just give him time. On the third day, Uncle Eldon called Sheriff Hayes, but the sheriff talked to Marigold, saw her side of things, and said he couldn’t do anything if a man chose to duck out on a marriage he wasn’t sure he wanted. I don’t think he ever made much of a search, at least not for quite a while. By the time he did, I guess it was too little and too late.”
“Pretty sorry investigative technique,” Peter growled. “Seems to me too much time got away before anybody official got into the act.”
“Marigold said no,” Nina answered, “and Marigold carries a lot of weight in this county. She didn’t mean to make it harder; she just didn’t believe anything had happened to Danny. I guess I couldn’t blame her.” Her skin felt drawn against her cheekbones and a headache lurked just behind her eyelids.
Giving her hand a quick squeeze, Peter seemed to sense Nina’s weariness. “I think that’s enough for tonight, Nina.” Peter tore pages from the notebook, tucked them into his pocket, and rose. “I know it hasn’t been easy for you to go into all this again. I hope I can help find some answers.” He looked back at the scrapbook on the table. “Could I borrow your wedding picture? When I reach the woman I got the car from, it would help to have a picture of Danny. I’ll see you get it back.”
“Of course, but that’s just a snapshot a friend took,” Nina answered. “I have a whole stack of professional wedding photos, and some of them are better of Danny. He doesn’t have his glasses on in one or two, and at least one of them is a close-up. They might be more help.” The photos in the box with the photographer’s name on the top still waited to be put into the white satin album. She’d brought them home, started to arrange them for the album, lost heart and put them in a drawer, then finally stopped looking at them after the first year. Still she only needed a moment to find the box and bring it back to Peter.
He thumbed through the prints she handed him. “These are better. I’ll be
very careful with them. And give me your phone number, too, if you don’t mind. I might need to ask something else, once I think about all of this.”
“Of course,” Nina agreed and wrote her number on another sheet from the pad. “If the pictures help you, then I’m glad to let you have them.” She closed the box. “I don’t look at them much anymore. After a while you just get too numb to hurt.”
Peter tore the lined page in half and took her pencil. “I’ll give you my number, as well, in case you think of something that seems odd or out of character for Danny. I know you’ve been over it a thousand times, but something might connect in a new way.” He put the photos and her number in his pocket with the notes he’d made and started for the door. “I think I have enough to begin. When I contact the widow of the man who bought the car, I’ll let you know what I find out. Of course she may not have any information, but it’s worth the effort to ask.”
Nina nodded, glad of his interest but ready to bring his visit to an end. “Thanks,” she said, opening the door.
Peter stopped and turned back, a puzzled look pulling his brows together. “I meant to ask, if it isn’t too personal, Nina... I know you wear Danny’s ring, but you use your maiden name. Why Nina Kirkland—not Nina Wilson?”
Long-buried resentment flooded Nina. That raw spot was one time might never heal. “Because Marigold insists Danny and I weren’t really married. She says five minutes in front of a preacher doesn’t constitute marriage and I have no right to Danny’s name. If I’d been the right girl for him in the first place, he’d never have left me at the church. With all the gossip she’d started, blaming me for his disappearance, I finally agreed not to use the Wilson name until Danny comes back. Anything to stop the snide and hateful speculation. But nothing can make me stop wearing his ring. Danny put it on my hand, and I won’t take it off till he asks me to or I find out he’s dead. In which case, Marigold would be right—I wouldn’t be his wife—I’d be his widow.”
Chapter 4
“Then I’m not Danny’s wife—I’m his widow.” Nina’s hurt and angry words rang in Peter’s mind as he pulled away from the cottage. He hadn’t really appreciated the girl’s situation, he realized. It must be hell for a pretty young woman, once vibrant and alive with hopes and plans, to be caught in the web that entangled Nina. Neither married nor single, not matron or maid, but closed out of the normal activities of both. By some definition Nina was a married woman, though no definition would describe her as a wife. She couldn’t let herself be attracted to a man. She was a lovely, intelligent person, warm and caring, who sat at home and graded papers or spent her free time with her uncle. Not a normal social life at all for a girl her age. No decent man would approach her knowing she was married, and nothing less than an honorable man would do for a small-town schoolteacher. Her courage and the steady look in her caramel eyes spoke of her strength and character. Peter had to admire the young woman’s determination, but something more, a subtle attraction, underlined his compassion.
Nina called her life limbo, but it’s got to be just plain hell for the girl. Wonder if the mother-in-law had a real reason to think her son left Nina at the church? Was he that irresponsible? Or that callous? If he didn’t want to marry her, why go through with the ceremony? The whole situation is confused. The only way it makes sense is if someone stopped Danny from coming back, attacked him or took him. Ransom? Maybe, but why take the car, too? Seems like an unnecessary complication, and apparently there’s never been a demand for money. Enemies? What kind of enemy could a guy like that make? He was almost an invalid much of his life, the way Nina tells it. No, there’s too much we don’t know, too many unseen factors, to draw any conclusions. I have to get more information. And pretty Nina is the only place I can get it. I pressed about as far as I could tonight, but she knows more than she realizes. She’ll just have to come to trust me enough to talk freely.
Peter’s questions and half-drawn suspicions churned in his mind as he made the drive back to Pueblo and the house he rented from the physics professor. The street, quiet and badly lit, was lifeless this time of night. People had retreated to their bedrooms, windows closed against the spring chill and hint of rain in the air. Soon those windows would be flung open, curtains fluttering from the swish of oscillating fans, as the inhabitants tried to find a way to lessen the oppressive heat of a Texas summer. Kids would be chasing fireflies, their folks would linger on the porches, and the click of ice stirred into tall glasses of sweet tea would fill the evening. Not tonight, though, Peter mused. Tonight held no more hint of the summer to come than the scent of newly blooming honeysuckle filling the air.
The house was older than its neighbors, with native stone walls that kept in the heat during winter and harbored what coolness could be found in summer. Peter liked the place, had made the second bedroom a functioning office and ignored the shortcomings of the kitchen and antiquated bath. The furniture came with the lease, sturdy, scarred, mismatched, but serviceable. Taking care not to bend Nina’s photographs, he stacked them on his makeshift desk with the pages of notes he’d taken as she talked. Absently pulling his tie loose, he settled into the creaking office chair, flipped on the desk lamp, and looked down at the top photograph.
Danny Wilson at twenty-five still had an unfinished, boyish look to his face. From the picture, Peter couldn’t tell if the eyes were brown or blue. A certain heaviness in the lids masked them, but Peter thought the driver’s license had said brown. Danny’s hair was light, a flaxen blond combed smooth and parted to the side. The face hadn’t seen enough life to have much character to it. Just a fresh-faced young man about to begin life’s journey with a pretty girl who loved him. That Nina loved Danny was clear even in the picture. She had the innocent, joyous glow of a happy bride. But did Danny love her, Peter asked himself. He couldn’t tell. Nina said her young husband suffered from various health issues, but Peter didn’t see any sign of that in the photograph before him, not unless the slightly hunched shoulders suggested something. The way the couple stood precluded an exchange of looks. Nina looked up at Danny but Danny was looking into the camera. Can’t draw a conclusion from that, Peter told himself. Did Danny love her, marry her, and meet with foul play in some form? Or did he go through the ceremony for reasons no one guessed, only to duck out on a life he didn’t want? Peter studied the pictures but didn’t see any answers.
Nina would wait forever for the husband she’d had for an hour. He knew that. Peter didn’t know her well, but he knew enough to bet that when she took a vow or made a promise she never backed out. Nina deserved to know if she was wife or widow, married or not. A second thought sent Peter rigid and erect in his chair. He suddenly knew he wanted an answer to those questions, not just for Nina’s sake but for his own. Because if Danny Wilson was out of Nina’s life, Peter Shayne wanted to be sure of it. Peter’s own code of ethics didn’t include kissing another man’s wife. And Peter had just realized he had every intention of kissing Nina Kirkland, kissing her and seeing if it led to anything more. Was Danny alive, was he dead, and where had he been the last two years? The time had come for someone to find out. Peter just wasn’t sure which way he wanted the result to fall. Danny alive and back in Nina’s life, or Nina free, free to see the interest in another man’s eyes? Which way? And how long would it take a skilled untangler of knots to find the answer?
Peter managed very little sleep that night. The blanket was too warm, the room too chilly without it. The bedclothes wrapped in knots around him, leaving his feet bare and cold. He blamed the late evening coffee with Nina for his restlessness, but he suspected the answer was a lot more complicated than he wanted to admit. In his brief snatches of sleep, he saw tantalizing visions of a girl with soft curly brown hair blowing in the wind. A slender figure turned to look at him with caramel-colored eyes. A provocative bit of laughter teased him as a yellow sports car flew by. Other girls had gotten under his skin, but none had been as innocent or as unobtainable as Nina Kirkland. Peter finally gave up
his quest for sleep and tumbled out of bed as the first light of a new day brushed the windowsill.
With no patience for cooking and little interest in eating, Peter made a passable plate of toast, blackened only on the edges, poured canned orange juice into a tumbler, and contemplated the situation. If Danny was alive, he could be found. Finding him was the first step. If for some insane reason he didn’t want a life with Nina, a legal remedy could be found. Given the circumstances, an annulment should be easy to obtain.
But what if his disappearance was involuntary? An accident, an injury might have left him with no memory. Amnesia did happen, not often, not with the frequency fiction and film writers suggested, but it did happen. If Danny were found, disoriented, or disabled, then what would Nina do? Peter didn’t even have to think on that one. Loyal, loving Nina would take her husband home, care for him, no matter what the circumstances. That would leave Peter Shayne exactly where he was right now, falling for another man’s wife. Of course, Danny might well be dead, Peter reminded himself, and grimaced at the idea that he could wish, even hope, that was the case. No, he didn’t want that. If that were the situation, finding out what had happened to the groom on his wedding day was practically hopeless. Peter could only guess what the effect of Danny’s death would be on Nina. She’d clung to the hope he’d come home to her for so long, to find that he never would—could Nina face that, after losing her parents and then living on hope for the last two years?
Half Past Mourning Page 4