The Unsung Hero

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Tom Paoletti.

  Tonight.

  Oh, my God.

  When David got home from work, Mallory Paoletti was sitting on the wooden stairs that led up to his apartment.

  She closed her book and stood as he climbed out of his car. “Hey, I thought your shift ended at ten-thirty.”

  She was wearing low-riding shorts today with her trademark black tank top, probably because of the heat. The ring in her belly button glittered with a red stone instead of her usual blue. Both that and her long pale legs worked nicely with the shorts. Very nicely.

  “Hey, Nightshade.” He shouldered his backpack and started up the stairs. “My boss asked me to stay and work part of the lunch shift. What time is it, anyway?”

  “It’s after one. You must be exhausted.”

  Had she been sitting here since 10:30?

  The thought was absurd. She couldn’t possibly have been.

  And yet there it was, a pile of gum wrappers—her substitute these days for cigarettes—on the steps next to not one but two soda cans and an empty coffee hot-cup.

  David had been tired. Coming home, he’d wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the entire afternoon. But now he felt energized. He felt terrific. Mallory had been sitting here, waiting for him for hours.

  “I’m doing okay,” he told her. “Hardly even tired at all.”

  She was wearing sunglasses and he couldn’t see her eyes as she gazed at him. “You’re kidding, right? You couldn’t have gotten to bed before one-thirty. And you said you had to be at work at four-thirty. That was less than three hours—”

  “I’m fine.” He unlocked his door. “Come on in. Did you have lunch? What time do you have to be back at work?”

  “I’m not on today.” She picked up her things and followed him inside, closing the door behind her. “I don’t have to work until tomorrow at noon.”

  Oh heartache, oh pain. David was working pretty much nonstop until tomorrow at noon. He was going back in just a few hours, at six, to help with an evening party. The money was all overtime, which was good, but money meant nothing when Mallory Paoletti was standing in his apartment and telling him she had the next twenty-four hours off.

  “I sort of had a liquid lunch,” she told him, wandering toward his computer setup. She touched the mouse, waking the computer out of standby mode. It came on with a series of beeps and a blast of music from his speakers, making her jump back. “Oh, my God, what did I do?”

  David put his backpack on the table by the door, in the kitchen area of his studio apartment. “It’s all right.” He crossed the room and turned down the speakers. “I’ve set it up to go right on-line, check my email first thing.”

  “Isn’t that an Internet camera?” she asked, pointing carefully, clearly afraid to touch anything else. “Pretty kinky, David Sullivan. What do you do, dance naked in cyberspace?”

  “Oh, God, no! I use it to show stuff—artwork—to Ren Shimoda, my former partner in California,” he quickly explained. “When I draw, particularly for a graphic novel, the paper’s too big to put in the scanner and . . .”

  Mallory was laughing at him. “Chill, I was kidding. I figured it was something like that. You’re definitely the type to do your naked dancing off-line.”

  David was standing close enough to smell her perfume. It was tangy and sweet and not at all subtle. He loved it. He loved the different flecks of color he could see in her eyes at close range, too. He loved the sheer perfection of her skin, the delicate shape of her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, her overabundance of earrings.

  He cleared his throat. “So. I was just going to make myself a sandwich. Want one? I’ve got some sliced chicken and rye bread.”

  He turned away, ready to escape to the safety of his refrigerator, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. She had nice hands—long, slender, graceful fingers—but she bit her nails nearly to the quick. Her less than perfect nails ruined the effect created by her hair, her clothes, and her piercings, making her seem vulnerable, softer, human.

  She pulled her hand away fast, as if she, too, had felt a jolt of electricity at the contact. No, couldn’t be. That was his fantasy.

  “Lookit, I came over because I wanted to thank you for helping me last night. I know that must’ve been really weird for you, dealing with my uncle and my great-uncle, and . . .” She shook her head. “It shook me up seeing Tom like that.”

  “I’m glad I could help you,” he told her. “It was my pleasure.” He realized she actually had tears in her eyes, and he tried to make it into a joke. “How often will I have the chance to come to Nightshade’s rescue, anyway, right?”

  But Mallory didn’t laugh. “Brandon just walked away,” she told him flatly. “We were still at the carnival, and he just left me there, with Tom practically unconscious on the ground.”

  Damn Bran. David wasn’t surprised, but obviously Mal had expected more from his friend. She’d expected Bran to be as bright and shining inside as he was out. She’d probably even fallen more than half in love with the person she’d imagined him to be.

  No wonder there were tears in her eyes. This had to hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “Why are you apologizing?” She wiped her eyes brusquely with the back of her hand. “You were great. If someone came waking me up in the middle of the night, I would’ve pulled the blanket over my head and told ’em to go to hell. You should be given a sainthood or something.”

  No, he very definitely didn’t qualify for sainthood. Especially not when Mallory stood so close. “Well,” he said, backing up a little. “Yeah. Sure. Hey, sandwich?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not going to eat your food, too, on top of making you sleep deprived. I should go, let you do whatever you were planning to do today.”

  “Gee, I was going to make a couple sandwiches, then go over to the Ice Cream Shoppe, see if you wanted one.”

  She gave him her death look. “You were not.”

  He took the chicken and mustard out of the fridge and put it onto the table. “Saint David never lies.”

  Finally, finally she laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  The bread was still soft, the sell-by date several days in the future—always a good sign. He tossed it to Mallory. “Hey, you know, I got the pictures back from last night. I dropped ’em at the one-hour photo place—they should call themselves Photo Thieves. It’s, like, three times as expensive as getting the pictures developed at the drugstore. But I didn’t want to wait, so I dropped them off during my break this morning, picked ’em up on the way home.”

  Mallory brightened even more. “Are they any good?”

  “Some of ’em, yeah.” He got two paper plates from the cabinet, two plastic knives. “I’m out of mayo, but I’ve got some catsup.”

  “On chicken? Gross. Stick with mustard. Can I see the pictures?”

  “Only if you stay and have a sandwich.” He put the plates and knives on the table, unzipped his backpack. There were three packs of photos. He tossed them out onto the table, near the chicken.

  But Mallory just stood there, still holding the bread. “David, Bran told me how you’re trying to save money. I really don’t need a sandwich.”

  “How about we trade? You eat one of my sandwiches, you treat me to a sandwich some other time.”

  She thought about that and nodded. “All right. But you’ve got to promise that you’ll really let me buy you one. Maybe tonight?”

  He had to promise that he would let her take him out for dinner. How twisted was this? Like he wouldn’t sell his little brother into a life of slavery for just a chance to spend time with this girl. “I’d love to, but tonight might be a little tight. I’m doing an extra shift from six to close.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Actually, I was kind of hoping you’d agree to come over for another photo shoot tomorrow night. Some of the pictures are really good, but in some the lighting was wrong—they came out overexp
osed.”

  She was looking through the first packet of pictures, her nose wrinkled. “Oh, my God, I look—”

  “You look great,” he told her. “Anything bad is my fault.”

  She pulled out a picture in which her eyes were half-closed. “Your fault?”

  “Well, yeah, obviously I waited right until you blinked. Definitely my fault.”

  She laughed again as she sat down at the table, flipping through the pictures.

  “Do you want mustard on your sandwich?” he asked, sitting next to her and pulling the paper plates toward him.

  “Yeah, thanks.” She looked at him. “Man, that’s service—you’re gonna make it for me, too, huh?”

  He shrugged. “I’m making one, I might as well make two.”

  “Most people don’t think that way,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He smiled at her. “You’re welcome.” Thank you for staying and having lunch and fulfilling one of my fantasies. A tame fantasy, but a fantasy just the same. “What do you say about tomorrow night? It won’t take long, maybe just an hour.”

  “God, Brandon’s photogenic,” she said.

  Brandon. Way to kill the fantasy. “Yeah, I know.”

  She didn’t look up from the photographs. “Maybe tomorrow night we could go out for a burger afterward. I mean, you know, just to even up the score.”

  “Sure,” David said. “Right. Just to even up the score.”

  “Kelly said to scold you if you didn’t call for a ride from the train station.”

  Tom stopped short on his way up the stairs to the Ashtons’ deck. The kitchen door was locked, but he’d spotted this open slider. Now he saw that Joe and Charles were sitting out here in the shade.

  Charles was asleep in a lounge chair, a blanket tenderly tucked around his bony frame. Joe was awake and looking at Tom, frowning slightly.

  “It’s not that long a walk,” Tom told his uncle quietly so as not to disturb Charles. “I took it nice and easy. I actually feel pretty good today.”

  Joe glanced at Charles, then pushed himself up out of the chair, moving toward the sliding door, away from his sleeping friend. “Kelly told me about the CAT scan, that you’re okay.”

  “Yeah.” Tom looked out at the sparkling blue ocean. “That’s one way of looking at it.” He met Joe’s eyes. “I would have preferred more conclusive results.”

  “I would have preferred finding out you were in the hospital when you were in the hospital.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Joe laughed. “No, you’re not. You know, I can remember being young. It feels like it was yesterday.” He glanced at Charles, shaking his head. “We spent a few hours at the hotel again today. I’m not sure what to tell you—either no one’s suspicious looking or everyone’s suspicious looking. I’ve been trying to pay attention to who’s here with their family, who’s not, but it’s a big hotel, it’s not an easy job.”

  “My XO’s coming tomorrow afternoon,” Tom told him. “We’ll figure out the best way to watch the place. I mean, even if all it comes down to is checking cars in the parking lot on the day of the opening ceremony.” He met Joe’s gaze. “There’s probably no threat. I’m probably wasting everyone’s time.”

  “Probably,” Joe agreed. “But maybe not.” He smiled sadly. “Anyway, I’ve got some extra time to waste these days.” He cleared his throat. “So. You and Kelly.”

  Tom shook his head. “Joe, I really don’t want to discuss—”

  “I apologize for walking in on you last night.”

  “Okay. Apology accepted. Great.” Tom turned to go into the house.

  “You’re having dinner with her tonight.”

  Tom turned back. “Yeah. But, funny, I don’t remember sending out that information in a press release.”

  Joe crossed his arms. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to know you’re spending the night with her?”

  “Evening,” Tom corrected him. “Dinner. Give me a break.”

  “She’ll be home in a few hours. She called to ask if I wanted her to pick up something from the Lotus Blossom. That’s the Chinese restaurant here in town.”

  Tom nodded. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Good food. No MSG.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Nice people own the place. New people.”

  Tom waited.

  “Chinese people,” Joe said. “Don’t speak much English, but they sure can cook a mean moo goo gai pan. They actually know a little French, so I don’t have any trouble communicating.”

  For a man who was taciturn, Joe was talking up a storm. But Tom knew that Chinese food wasn’t the subject he really wanted to discuss.

  “Okay,” Tom said. “Me and Kelly. Let me have it. Your uncensored opinion. You don’t think I should have dinner with her. At least not alone. You don’t think—”

  “No,” Joe said. “I think it’s great. In fact, I think you should get decked out in your dress whites tonight and use the opportunity to ask her to marry you.”

  Tom nearly choked. “What?”

  “You heard me,” Joe said. “That’s what a man does when he’s in love with a woman. And since you’ve been in love with Kelly nearly half your life, it’s probably time to marry the girl.”

  Tom scratched his head as he chose his words carefully. “I’m not sure love’s quite the right word for it. Yes, I’ve always been attracted to her, but—”

  Joe smiled. “You call it whatever you want, whatever label you’re comfortable with, Tommy. But if you have even half a brain, you’ll marry her while you’ve got the chance.”

  “Um . . .”

  “I know you’ve got some history,” Joe continued, “you and Kelly. I know something happened, something that scared you to death and chased you out of town that summer you left for basic training a whole month early.”

  Tom tried to hide his surprise and the older man smiled. “You don’t really think I didn’t know, do you? That night you brought her home so late.” He laughed softly. “You had a wild look to you, Tommy, and I was proud of you for going—for knowing she was too young. And I was disappointed when she wasn’t here for you to come home to when she was finally old enough.”

  Joe met his gaze steadily. “She didn’t understand when you left,” he continued, “and it nearly broke her heart. Tonight you can explain and make it right. And ask her to marry you.”

  “What, so I can break her heart again?” God, how’d he get into this conversation anyway? Tom edged toward the door. He didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to think about the emotion he’d seen in Kelly’s eyes sixteen years ago as he shook her hand and said good-bye. He’d actually shaken her hand. Jesus. “You know damn well that a man in my profession can’t afford to have any serious relationships. Marriage isn’t easy in the SEAL units. It’s—”

  “A man in your profession can’t afford not to have a serious relationship. I was in your profession, you know. Not exactly, but close enough. Life is so short, and so precious. You and I both know that—more than most men. How can you hold happiness in your hands and not do everything in your means to keep it forever?”

  Tom didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Besides, there’s no such thing as an easy marriage,” Joe continued. “I’ve seen a lot of ’em in my life, and the marriages that seem to run smoothly, the ones that last the longest, they’re the ones that are worked on diligently, kind of like an old car. A Model T will last forever if it’s properly maintained. But as soon as you start to neglect it . . .”

  Tom leaned back against the railing. “And yet you never got married.”

  “No,” Joe agreed. “I didn’t. But it wasn’t because I didn’t ask.”

  “Cybele,” Tom said.

  Joe glanced over at Charles, who was still sleeping soundly. When he looked back at Tom, he just shook his head.

  “I wish you would tell me about France,” Tom said. “And about this Cybele, and about Mr. Ashton and the Fifty-fifth, too. I ho
nestly didn’t know until a few days ago that you were OSS, and I’m—” He stopped, shook his head. “I understand why you didn’t tell me about what you did in the War. There’s an awful lot that I’ve done that I can’t talk about, and even more that I won’t talk about. I’m not going to ask you about it, but if you ever do want to talk . . .”

  “Thank you,” Joe said. “But I have to tell the whole story to that writer after the ceremony on Tuesday. I don’t think I can stand to do it twice.”

  “You don’t have to do it at all,” Tom countered.

  “You know,” Joe said, “you could go into town to the jewelers and buy Kelly a ring. Give it to her before you spend the night with her.”

  Oh, God. “Dinner,” Tom said. “We’re starting with dinner.”

  Joe nodded. “I won’t wait up.”

  “I’ve got work to do on the computer,” Tom told him, beating a hasty retreat into the house.

  You don’t have to do it at all, Tom had said about Joe’s plan to talk to that author, Kurt Kaufman.

  But Joe did have to do it. Because the story needed to be told before Charles died.

  There was a statue in front of the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel with Joe’s face on it. And it was about time this town knew that that face should have been Charles Ashton’s.

  Charles Ashton—one of the richest of the rich in a wealthy town. He could buy and sell almost anyone, coming into money that his grandfather’s grandfather had earned, and doubling it with his fearless investments and his cutthroat financial wizardry. He came off as cold-blooded and standoffish, and few recognized the truth—that risking money meant nothing to him. Not after having lived through the War, after having watched so many risk their very lives, after seeing so many sacrifice so much.

  As Charles had gotten older, he’d tried to buy acceptance in the town by donating generously to the hospital fund. But all that had bought him were vague mutterings that he’d probably bought himself a safe position far from the front lines during the War, as well.

  Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Charles was the real hero of Baldwin’s Bridge. And Joe was finally going to tell the story.