by Dawn Atkins
He was startled by the change in her attitude. His heart filled with tenderness and he touched her cheek, wishing he could say something to make her feel better. “Sounds like you’re a work-at-it person after all.”
“That means a lot to hear you say that.” She kissed his palm. Their eyes locked and the air between them crackled.
Dylan pulled away, more alarmed than he’d been by their physical connection. He cared for her. He admired her courage, her determination, her big heart. She was trying to make things right with her parents, giving them both far more credit than they deserved.
They finished eating, packed up and drove home in a companionable silence. At her house, she got out of the car and came to his window. Her eyes were clear. She had color in her cheeks and a calm expression on her face.
“Thanks so much. I know you gave up work to spend the afternoon with me. I feel lots better. You always know what I need.”
“It’s good to see you happy.”
“You’re a great guy, Dylan. I see that more and more. I don’t think I realized what I had when I had you.” In her eyes, he saw longing and regret in a flash like lightning in the monsoon they’d watched from that cave long ago. She leaned in for a quick kiss, then backed up and waved at him.
He watched her in the rearview. She looked lonely standing in front of that huge house in those baggy sweats, arms folded as if against a chill, though the day was warm.
He knew how she felt. He was lonely, too, and filled with regret. He could taste it on his lips—German chocolate, vinegar chips and Tara.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TARA HUNG HER DAMP, paint-spattered clothes on the drying rack in the laundry room so they wouldn’t mildew before Judith did laundry, her heart in turmoil.
Dylan. He’d said his feelings for her were serious, that they’d killed his marriage to Candee. When he’d said they were better as friends, Tara’s first reaction was hurt that he could set her aside as he had done years ago for what he found more important. But that was the old Tara, the girl eaten alive by her insecurities, the one who demanded all-consuming love because she didn’t love herself.
The more mature Tara understood him and agreed...except that she’d wanted him so much. When he’d touched her cheek, looking at her with such tenderness and pride, she’d felt lifted up, floating on air.
There was attraction, sure, but so much more.
Was she still in love with him?
The possibility hit her like a paintball bullet in the sternum, sharp, hard and bruising. It scared her. How could she still be lost in that teenage fantasy of perfect love? What if she never got past it? What if she was locked forever dreaming of the impossible?
She flipped off the light with a snap and headed down the hall.
“Tara?” her mother called to her from the sunroom, where she stood with a list in her hand, her eyes red-rimmed, her face swollen. She’d been crying. “Good Lord, you look even more homeless than when you left,” she snapped. “Is that mud in your hair?”
Tara bristled, then realized this was how her mother told her she cared. On impulse, Tara put her arms around her mother and hugged her. “I love you, too, Mom.”
Her mother backed out of the hug. “Have you been drinking?”
Swept up in new affection, Tara said, “Of course not. You don’t have to hide how you feel, Mom, or put on a face for me.”
“What is with you?” Her mother sounded vicious. “Why are you so extreme? On or off, black or white, thrilled or enraged. You’re so difficult. You’ve always been difficult. That’s your trouble.”
Hurt coiled around Tara’s heart. Just when she’d thought they were making some headway. She could hardly breathe for the pain. She’d tried, but her mother always rebuffed her.
“No, Mom,” she snapped back. “My trouble is that you wish I’d never been born. I was a mistake. We both know that.”
Her mother stared at her. “No child is a mistake,” she said in a low voice. “You’ll see when you have your own.”
“What makes you think I want any?” She did, though. In her heart of hearts, once she proved to herself that she was capable of that level of love.
“You’ll do what you’re called upon to do. One step and then the next.” She thrust the folder at Tara. “These calls won’t make themselves. Call Raven’s Dry Cleaning right away. They close early. It’s the Jewish Sabbath.” She turned on her heels and walked away.
Tara stood there, reeling. She should probably be angry, but she realized she wasn’t. No child is a mistake. Somehow that soothed her—balm to the sting—and eased the lonely hollow she’d always felt inside knowing that she was not wanted.
For the first time, it occurred to her that her mother might have doubted herself, worried she wasn’t up to motherhood, that she’d done the best she could with what she had, who she was.
Her mother had assumed Tara would have children. She had more faith in Tara than Tara did in herself. That touched Tara.
Something bloomed in her, a new sturdiness, a new confidence. All from the smallest hint of honesty from her mother. Coming from her mother, she realized, that was big. Very big.
Buoyed by the feeling, she decided her first call would be to the insurance adjuster. She was determined to reach him this time. When she told the secretary she needed to touch base with the adjuster before she took any legal action, he was suddenly on the phone.
“I understand you have some concerns, Ms. Wharton,” he said, cutting her off before she could say more than hello, his voice icy, “but I have been in contact with your family’s attorney, and I assumed he would answer your questions. Since that seems not to be the case, I’ll repeat what I told him. I’ve examined and rated the car and taken statements from the law enforcement officer who first responded to the scene, a Mr. Bill Fallon, chief of the Wharton P.D. There were no witnesses. As the case proceeds we’ll work with your attorney regarding the settlement of the bodily injury claims. That’s all I can tell you at this time.”
“Did you take photos at the accident site? Did you examine the engine?”
“I determined the level of damage and coverage pertinence. This is a run-of-the-mill, single-car loss. There was no need for more.”
“Run-of-the-mill? My father is dead, my sister in a coma.”
There was a pause while he inhaled. “I simply meant that the circumstances are clear. We’re not disputing coverage, as there are no SLIs—Suspicious Loss Indicators—signs that the driver, policyholder or car owner committed fraud related to the policy.”
“There is plenty that’s suspicious about this accident. We believe there’s evidence the car was struck from behind and possibly that the engine was tampered with. The emergency brake was engaged, but there were no skid marks. Something malfunctioned.”
“There was a collision? Chief Fallon did not mention this.”
“No, because he’s actively covering up some aspects of the accident.”
“We haven’t yet received his report.”
“Which won’t tell you a thing. What we need is for you to release the car to us so we can have the engine fully examined.”
“Hmm,” he said. “With a settlement of this size, we, of course, are interested in correctly assessing responsibility...”
“So you’ll release the car to our mechanic?”
“No, but I will submit the case to our SIU—Special Investigation Unit. You’ll need to email me a narrative description of the evidence, along with any photographs. If there was malfeasance, we’ll want to subrogate the perpetrator.”
“What does that mean?”
“Seek to recover our settlement costs from the person who committed the fraud. If the SIU deems it worthy, an investigator will do in-person interviews, compare statements, take pictures, contract with a collision reconstructionist and anything else we need to resolve the case.”
This was exactly what she was after. Excited, she said, “How soon before we see the investigator?”<
br />
“That depends on backlog, the significance of the settlement, the cost of the investigation compared with the likelihood that we’ll prove our case.”
Tara did her best to convince him that urgent action was needed and when she hung up, she sent him the narrative and photos. Just in case, Tara Google-searched collision reconstructionist, then called a company in L.A. she found online. The Wharton name, famous in engineering circles, snagged the expert’s interest, and once he’d charged $500 to her credit card, he promised he’d get back to her in a day or two with his Level I analysis, which wouldn’t hold up in court, but might impress the insurance company’s investigators.
After that, adrenalized from the conversations, she did more online research, finding no reports of acceleration errors or brake failures for the Tesla, which also had great safety ratings. Finished, she shut the lid of her laptop. As far as the car went, all she could do now was wait.
She called Dylan to fill him in, trying to ignore the way her heart lifted when he answered, how his voice in her ear sent goose bumps of pleasure down her arms, how they both seemed to scramble for any topic to prolong the conversation, the intimacy of their laughter, the pauses when they just breathed at each other, how good it felt to be connected to him, how smart he was, how kind, how supportive, and how delighted he seemed by every word she spoke.
They were friends. They’d decided. They’d been certain. But they were talking to each other like a couple just falling in love. And she couldn’t wait to see him Monday night when she would talk to Candee.
After that, Tara got busy with her mother’s calls. She would double the donations from the previous year easily. It was almost laughable, the fact that CEOs trusted Tara to help them with decisions controlling the lives of thousands of employees, yet her mother didn’t believe her capable of asking for a few measly donations from small-town businesses. It boggled the mind. She refused to let it get to her. She was bigger than that.
Tara sighed. It wore her out how much she had to be bigger than since she’d returned to her family, Dylan and this town.
No child is a mistake. There had been a flash of fire in her mother’s eyes, a set of her jaw that still moved Tara.
One step and then the next.
Absolutely right.
* * *
“SHE’S NOT HERE yet, is she?” Candee said when Dylan opened the door to her Monday evening.
“Not yet. You look nice.” She’d dressed for a date in a short, sexy dress and heels, with her hair up. She’d fussed for Tara, which gave him a pang.
She beamed. “When I ran into her at Wharton I looked like crap. I don’t want her to think you married some loser.”
“You’re not a loser, Candee, and you never look like crap.” Maybe when she got to know Tara, Candee would stop seeing her as this impossible ideal. Or maybe she’d sense his growing feelings for her and it would be so much worse. Dread tightened his muscles.
Duster came over to greet her and she patted him absently. “Now, what are you serving?” She looked toward the kitchen. “Wait. No food?”
“This is a meeting, not a party. There’s beer.” He intended to stay stone-cold sober to keep the conversation on track and away from awkward topics.
“That’s no way to host.” She looked him over. “Not a T-shirt. Please put on something more respectful.”
He rolled his eyes, but he went to change if it made Candee more comfortable. The doorbell rang as he was buttoning a blue oxford shirt and when he came out, Candee had let Tara in. She wore jeans and a short-sleeved yellow shirt that shimmered in the light. Silk or satin. Something that looked liquid.
Tara crouched down for Duster to put his paws on her shoulder and do the kiss trick.
“That’s cool,” Candee said, but she looked a little startled. Duster never did tricks for Candee, as much as he loved her.
“I taught him that in high school,” Tara said with a shrug, catching Candee’s tone and clearly trying to minimize the damage. “Old dog, old trick.”
“I put out snacks,” Candee said. She motioned at the cocktail table, which held the German chocolate cupcakes on a plate, the vinegar chips in a bowl. Great.
Tara gave a surprised laugh.
“It’s all he had,” Candee said, puzzled by the reaction. “To drink there’s beer...”
“No, no. The snacks are fine.” She shot a look at Dylan, who smiled sheepishly.
“What’s the joke?” Candee demanded, clearly feeling left out.
“It’s not a joke,” Tara said. “It’s—”
“Leftovers from a picnic,” he finally said, knowing their delay in explaining made it sound more significant than it should.
“A picnic. How fun,” Candee said flatly. Had Dylan and Candee ever picnicked? Not that he could recall.
“I needed a break, so we had a paintball battle. It was a thing from high school,” Tara added, trying to make it sound light, but it sounded intimate and exclusive. “Anyway, I really appreciate you talking to me about Wharton’s finances. I know it’s an imposition.”
After a pause, Candee said, “I came as a favor to Dylan.” She shot him a look, definitely pissed. “I’ll get us beers,” she said, walking away, her hips twitching angrily. Uh-oh. Bad start.
When she left the room, Tara mouthed I’m sorry at the same time he did.
Candee came back with three bottles. She held out one to him, twisted the lids on the other two and handed one to Tara.
She lifted her bottle for a toast. “To old friends,” she said, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. Hmm. He twisted the lid from his beer. Foam squirted everywhere, dousing his shirt and the floor.
Both women burst out laughing.
“Dammit, Candee.”
“Good one,” Tara said.
“Couldn’t resist. You go change. I’ll wipe up.”
He would put on a new shirt quick. Leaving them alone together was dangerous.
* * *
CANDEE WIPED UP the spill, then dropped onto the sofa and grabbed a potato chip, shooting Tara a challenging look as she ate it.
Tara sat at the other end of the couch, eating a chip, too. The stunt had been aimed at Tara, as well, she knew. They’d made Candee feel left out talking about the picnic, referencing high school, even Duster’s trick.
She decided to be direct. “I want to apologize to you for the other day. I sounded rude, I know. I was caught off guard.”
Candee shrugged, then sipped her beer, but Tara saw by the shift in her posture that Candee had needed the apology.
“Dylan talks about you a lot,” she added. “It’s obvious how much he cares about you and—”
“Don’t butter me up,” Candee said, setting down her beer with a click. “If you want him, you can have him. It’s not my concern. We’ve been divorced for years.” Her tone told a different story.
“That’s just it. I don’t want him.” Candee huffed a skeptical breath. “Well, there’s attraction, yes, but we agreed not to act on it.”
“Whatever you say.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Come on. I saw how you looked at each other. All that intimate smirking, that guilty-thrill look. I’m not an idiot.”
Tara’s face heated. “Well, we shouldn’t be doing that. There’s no point to it.”
Candee watched her for a few seconds, then finally gave a snorting laugh. “I don’t know why I’m picking on you. I’m over Dylan. I finally am.” She shook her head. “It’s just habit. Knee-jerk stuff.”
Relieved to hear her say that, Tara said, “I know what you mean. I’ve been doing that since I came back to town.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Being a brat...hypersensitive to every slight...thinking the worst of people...”
“Making googly eyes at Dylan?”
She laughed. “That, too.”
A sad look crossed Candee’s face. “He never looked at me like that. If I’d realized that before the wedding, I wouldn’t ha
ve wanted to marry him.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” Tara said. “I don’t know if this makes you feel better or not, but I was jealous of you when I heard you two were married. He committed his life to you, which was far more than he did with me.”
“Yeah?” Candee looked her over, sharp assessment in her gaze. Tara liked her. She was a straight shooter. She dropped her gaze to the floor, took a drink of her beer. “He wanted it to work. I know that,” she said finally, softly. “He fought like hell to hang on to me, but I wanted the real thing, not leftovers, you know?” She looked at Tara, this time her eyes were soft and open.
“I do. I really do.” She felt a snap as they connected with each other. “I admire you both for staying friends. That can’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t. Not at first. It’s easier when I stay away from the wedding album.” She gave a sheepish smile.
“For me, it’s the German chocolate cupcakes.” She picked one up and bit off the frosting.
Candee picked up one herself and began to eat it, a thoughtful expression on her face. When she turned to Tara, her expression held mischief. “Well, all I can say is lucky for you, I no longer want to scratch your eyes out.”
Tara stopped chewing and lowered the cupcake from her mouth, startled to realize how pissed Candee must have been at her.
“I’m kidding,” she said, grinning. “I’m more of a hair puller.”
Tara burst out laughing. “I like how you think.”
Candee smiled. “The truth is...I’m seeing a guy. His name’s Adam. Dylan doesn’t know yet. He’s perfect for me. At first I got scared because I kept comparing him to Dylan. That horrified me because of Dylan doing that to me with you.”
“I can imagine.”
“But after a little while, my Adam memories pushed the Dylan ones out the window. Now when I’m with him, I’m totally with him.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. Now I have to tell Dylan.”
“He’ll be happy for you, I’m sure.”
“I hope so.” She took another bite of cupcake. After she’d swallowed, she said, “You have a boyfriend?”