by Alice Sharpe
Still, he should have stuck them all in a hotel room and tackled the tail back in Billington, back where he knew his way around.
On the other hand, he’d seen no sign of the tail since the last thrift store. Maybe it was some overzealous cop and had nothing to do with Grace.
She said, “What was she like?”
“What was who like?”
“Your wife.”
Adroit at dodging uncomfortable questions, he said, “She was like a light beer. Lots of bubbles, not much taste, very little follow-through.”
Grace didn’t even smile. “What was her name?”
“Jessica.”
“What did she look like?”
“Why do you care what she looked like?” he snarled.
For a long time, he thought his annoyed response had put the quietus on Grace’s questions. Eventually, however, she said, “Look at all those lights in all those houses.” Her voice was soft, dreamy.
He looked out his window and saw the lights and didn’t have the slightest idea where she was going with this new line of conversation.
“All those people,” she continued. “All those families, all those lives. All going on behind closed doors, behind blinds and draperies. But all so real.”
Now he understood. All those lives, all real, unlike hers. He said nothing.
“Ever since I put on your ex-wife’s clothes this morning, I’ve been trying to picture her,” Grace said and he could feel her gaze on him. “I guess you and your aunt and the Coopers are the only people I know right now. My head feels like a great big stadium, one of those monstrosities that seat umpteen thousands of people. Only in my case, just four people showed up for the game. Even the playing field is empty. No game. No spectators. Just this gnawing sense of urgency that won’t go away. Can’t you drive faster?”
“No, I can’t drive faster.”
Grace fell silent.
The miles sped by, the old car giving no indication of its age. If a car aged by miles and not years, this car really wasn’t that old, Mac thought, as it had spent most of its life in his aunt’s garage. The Coopers weren’t known for taking long road trips.
He grew alarmed when his eyes drifted closed. If the price for company on this drive was disclosure, then he might as well talk. He said, “Jessica was…pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes, slender. Pretty.”
Grace shifted in her seat to stare at him, and he added, “I guess like everyone else, Jessica was just a person looking to get from point A to point B. I was the road she chose to travel. For a while.”
“You make her sound like a tourist,” Grace said.
“That’s a good word for her,” he said. “A tourist. I like that.”
“How did you meet?”
“A blind date. I’d just gotten out of the army. I was kind of shell-shocked.”
“Why?”
He cast her an exasperated glance. Apparently, her vicarious life demanded details. Swallowing hard, he said, “There’d been an…accident. A helicopter crash. My best friend, Rob Confit, died. Anyway, when I got out, Rob’s family kind of adopted me. My dad was dead by then, so it was nice for me and they, well, they missed Rob. Eventually, Rob’s sister set me up with Jessica.”
“Was it love at first sight?” Grace asked wistfully as if she were a little kid and had just read her first fairy tale about a princess and the knight who rescued her from a dragon.
“Kind of. Jessica seemed to hang on my every word. It was very flattering. We were married less than six months after we met.”
“So her main attraction was that she seemed to idolize you?”
He spared her another glance. “Hey, don’t knock it. Marriages have been built on far less than that.”
She shrugged. “So what happened?”
“I let her down,” he said, surprised by his choice of words.
“That’s hard to imagine,” Grace said.
“But it’s true,” he admitted. “I told people that she got irritated with my preoccupation with work. The drug unit undercover stuff was hard on her.”
“You had a career—”
“No. The truth was I wasn’t there for her, and one day she got sick of it and found someone else. And in my heart of hearts, I knew I’d been expecting her to leave me since the moment she’d uttered, ‘I do.’”
Grace said, “It can’t all be your fault, Mac.”
“Maybe not,” he muttered, unwilling to divulge the ugly details of the nights he’d justified working instead of going home. Her leaving hadn’t come as a huge surprise. If he were honest, he’d have to admit that maybe it had even been something of a relief when his marriage was finally over. He added, “But I have to take the lion’s share of the blame.”
“How long ago did all this happen?” Grace asked.
Another glance at her and he said, “Three years. I was working a homicide. I came home one night and she was gone.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. Packed up most of her clothes and flew off to New Jersey with a new Mr. Right.” Talking about Jessica had always left a bitter taste in Mac’s mouth. He noticed the taste wasn’t quite as distinct this time. “She left me a note.”
Grace cleared her throat. “Is Jessica the reason you looked so angry today?”
“When did I look angry?”
“When we were discussing possible scenarios for my fancy underwear. You implied I might have a lover. I might be as big a floozy as your ex.”
“Or maybe you just like nice clothes and have the money to indulge yourself.”
“Maybe, maybe,” she said wistfully. Then, her voice little more than a whisper, added, “I just hope I’m not a shallow, rich snob.”
He laughed. At first, he could feel her stiffen in the passenger seat as though he’d offended her. Eventually, a chuckle escaped her lips and she fell silent again.
WHAT AN ODD thing memory loss was.
Grace knew she didn’t like cooked beets and that she did like dogs. She couldn’t hold a tune, she didn’t like hot tea. She loved beaches.
If she knew so much about herself, then why didn’t she know her name? Why couldn’t she recall a husband or her pregnancy? How about parents? Childhood? Anything! And why did Billington sound like the wrong place for a home, but Florida sound right?
Right, wrong…all so muddled.
And all so immaterial, because the big issues Mac didn’t mention very often were so much more important.
How did she get in that alley? Why had she been drugged? Why wasn’t her family looking for her? Did she have anything to do with the death of Dr. Michael Wardman?
“I know your dad died a few years ago and I heard Mad die say I might be just like your mother. What did she mean?” she asked Mac, pressing for the details of something she could understand.
“When did you and Maddie spend so much time together?” Mac growled.
“We played cards. After dinner. She was talkative and I was desperate for something to think about besides these endless questions that have no answers. She whispered the part about your mother to your aunt, however, when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Hm—”
“You’re avoiding the question. Tell me about your mother.”
He rubbed the back of his head with one large hand while gripping the steering wheel with the other. His knuckles on that hand looked white. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Why would Maddie say I might be just like her?”
“Because my mother ran away. I assume Maddie was insinuating that you may have run away, too.”
“I don’t think I did,” Grace said. “I can’t imagine I would abandon a child. Oh, Mac, did your mother abandon you?”
“She left home when I was six,” he said.
“She left? You mean…for good?”
“For good.”
“And you never saw her again?”
“Once. I was twelve. I saw her on a street corner in Los Angeles.”
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“I don’t understand. How did you get to Los Angeles—”
“My father took me,” he said curtly. She saw his jaw muscle clench and was half-sorry she’d brought the subject up. Half-sorry. She needed to know more. She needed to know why she might be like his mother.
Mac finally loosened his grip on the wheel.
She said, “Did you talk to her? In L.A. I mean?”
He laughed once—a bark really, no mirth. He glanced at her and then back at the road. Finally, he said, “I don’t think my dad intended me to see my mother like that. Homeless. Begging. Wasted away with a drug habit. Eyes dull, hair matted. I learned later he’d been searching for her for years. When a private eye came up with her location, he just grabbed me and off we went.”
Grace felt her heart wrench. “That’s awful.”
“So, no, we didn’t have a family chat. No, ‘My, how you’ve grown.’ No, ‘I missed you, son.’ I pretty much stared at her while she tried to hit my dad up for money. I learned later that he had her committed to a drug rehab program. Apparently, she left as soon as he turned his back and that was the end of her.”
The end…
“I waited years for her to come find me,” he said. In his voice, Grace thought she detected the remnants of the boy he’d once been and she fought the desire to try to comfort him. She had to sit on her hands to keep them to herself.
“I blamed my father for everything,” he added. “I didn’t understand that he had tried to take her back home with us, that he’d begged her to let him take care of her, but she’d refused. She didn’t care. She didn’t care that she had a son or a marriage.”
“But your dad cared,” Grace murmured.
“Yes. I didn’t understand that until years later. I thought he caused her to leave. I didn’t know the truth until he was literally on his deathbed and Aunt Beatrice finally spoke up in his defense.”
“Why didn’t he just tell you himself?”
“He didn’t want me to feel rejected by her. He was trying to protect her.”
“I think he was trying to protect you, not her.”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe that’s what my husband is doing,” Grace said softly. “Maybe I’ve run away before, maybe he’s just waiting for me to come home on my own and that’s why he hasn’t called me in as a missing person.”
Mac cast her a swift, unreadable look. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “you don’t seem like a space cadet to me. You’re not an addict. Your instincts are good. You seem rational.”
She whispered, “Thank you,” but nothing he said really precluded her being as flaky as his mother. So she wasn’t an addict—that didn’t mean she didn’t have a drug habit at times of stress, times that might find her indulging in her all-too-frequent fantasy of running away.
The old car seemed to crawl down the highway. Mac was yawning a lot and she wondered when he’d admit he was too tired to keep driving. She also wondered how she’d manage to stand eight hours of inactivity when he finally tucked himself into a motel bed. As it was, she had to fight the desire to stick a foot out the door and help the car go faster.
She stole a look at his profile. It was a good one. Strong, competent, a determined-looking chin, an alert gleam in what she could see of his right eye, a nice, straight nose. The kind of man who took on responsibility without hesitation. If he was half as competent as he seemed, she was safe with him; he would see her problem through to its conclusion. He’d proven he could be trusted; he’d not abandoned her—at least, not yet.
But to complicate matters, there was no denying the way her body responded to his. The tingle of awareness that passed between them even now on the big bench seat of the old car. The haven of his arms when she was frightened, the comfort of his voice when she felt alone. Given half a chance, she’d touch his leg or caress his cheek. He was a stranger and yet he was familiar in a way no one else was. And she was lonely to the very core of her being.
What about your husband? What about your child?
A new thought entered her mind. “Mac?” Her voice sounded shrill to her own ears.
He glanced at her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“What if this urgency I’m feeling is connected to the fact that my husband apparently isn’t looking for me? What if at the same time someone drugged me and I lost my memory, he was hurt or kidnapped or something? Maybe we’re from Florida, maybe we were vacationing in Billington, maybe I got hit on the head and he got hurt or—something. Maybe he’s relying on me to come to his rescue. Maybe our child is with him!”
Mac shrugged one shoulder. “First thing—anyone who can afford underwear like yours can afford somewhere more hospitable than Billington in January for their vacation.”
“But I might have family in Billington. Maybe we should have gone to the police and run my picture in the paper.”
“You refused to go to the police,” he reminded her. “You were quite…adamant.”
“I know, but—”
“Grace, I can only drive so fast,” he said softly, reaching over with his right hand and grasping her hand. “We can’t alert the authorities to look for your husband because we’re not sure you have a husband. If you do, we don’t know where he might be. We have to start with your identity. That will lead us to your family. If Florida doesn’t work out, we’ll go back to Indiana and start over, but think of this. If you and your husband and child were visiting family, then surely one of them would have missed you by now and be in contact with the police. I checked. No one was reported missing in the past few days. No one. Not a woman, not a child, not a man. I called the hospitals—no nameless accident victims. My friend on the force will keep his eyes peeled and call if something breaks. Try to stay calm. Try not to think too much.”
Try not to think!
What else could she do, trapped in this car with a man she shouldn’t be attracted to but was, traveling at a snail’s pace, worrying it might be in the wrong direction, worrying that there might never be a right direction or if there was, worried that she wouldn’t know it when it presented itself.
Try not to think. Sure. Easy.
She might as well be dead as try not to think.
THE SUN CAME UP as they passed a sign announcing an exit cluttered with gas station and restaurant logos. Chattanooga was on the next sign, but she missed how many miles away it was. It didn’t matter.
“We’re almost out of gas,” Mac said around another yawn. He took the off ramp. The streets glistened with spent rain. The sky promised more to come.
Mac pulled into a station and as Grace looked around, she saw a motel across the street and reluctantly pointed it out. “Maybe we should stop.”
He gestured toward a coffee shop on the other corner. “Let’s get something to eat. A couple of cups of coffee and I think I can continue driving. If I can hang in there a few more hours, then we can stop for part of the night and roll into Miami tomorrow afternoon. Okay with you?”
She nodded anxiously and watched as he filled the tank, wishing she could do more to help. She found herself staring out all the windows, looking for a dark sedan like the one Mac had mentioned, a car going slowly, perhaps, the driver interested in the pale green car at the gas station. No one cruised by suspiciously, but she couldn’t stop watching.
It seemed the farther south they got, the more urgent her worries became. Mac got back into the car and drove it across the intersection.
The coffee shop looked and smelled the way Grace knew it would, even though she had no recollection of ever before stepping inside one. Upholstery a little shabby, mixed aromas of bacon and coffee thick in the air, hurried waitresses in pink uniforms and single men hunched over plates of eggs. Two strings of weak Christmas lights circled the counter near the cash register. They blinked on and off, unheralded. They looked as though they’d been in position for years, not weeks.
Grace found herself wondering where she’d spent her last Christmas and with whom.
Mac ordered buttermilk pancakes, so she did too. She bypassed coffee and drank milk. Maddie had told her that caffeine was bad for taut nerves. Grace had already known that, another one of those loose memories that rattled around in her head like the last peanut in a can. And just about as worthless.
“The service is slow,” Mac said.
“The waitress has probably been on her feet all night,” Grace said. “She’s probably trying to pay the rent and support some bum of a boyfriend. Maybe she has two or three jobs. Cut her some slack.”
He raised his eyebrows, but made no further comment.
When the food did come, it was hot and plentiful. Grace found the pancakes gummy and hard to swallow, but when Mac said something about how eating a big breakfast meant they wouldn’t have to take time to stop for lunch, she polished off half the stack.
Time not eating meant time traveling closer to some kind of conclusion…
As he drank the last of his coffee, Mac said, “What are you staring at?”
“Your eye. I’m sorry I slugged you.”
His fingers grazed his face as he said, “I’ve been slugged a lot harder than this and lived to tell the tale. Combine this shiner with my stubble and I’m going to look like a derelict by the time we get to Miami, though. I’ll shave when we stop for the night.”
When we stop for the night, Grace thought, anxiety seeping around the heavy edges of the pancakes.
Hours wasted.
No option, though. The man had to sleep sometime.
He pulled out his wallet, no doubt looking for a tip.
He said, “Let’s use the facilities and then get out of here.”
Sounded good to her.
A HEAVY GROUND fog shrouded the highway for the first few hours of driving after they left the diner. The freeway was a blur, the driving as dangerous as it was dull. Eventually, the skies cleared some and Mac stared at gauzy scenery he was too tired to appreciate. He tried recalling song lyrics to stay alert, then switched to imagining what life would be like if you couldn’t remember your past.