THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL

by Virginia Kantra

  "Coffee. Yes," Edward said with relief. "We'll speak with the doctor on our way."

  Sylvia paused by Val's bedside. Her almond nails hovered a moment over the singed blond braid, never quite touching. Her curtailed gesture of stunted affection struck Con as incredibly poignant. No, pathetic. Couldn't she see her daughter needed her?

  "We'll see you again in the morning, darling."

  Con stepped back to let them pass before approaching the bed. Despite a cursory wash, Val's face was still streaked with tears and grime. Her pupils were dilated with pain or dope. Her perfect jaw had a lump on one side.

  He balled his fists. He wanted to hold her. He was afraid to touch her. He should have insisted Kate give him the full medical rundown on her condition, the way he normally would when he was in control.

  He spotted the plastic pan on the tray beside the gurney. "You nauseous?"

  She shook her head.

  "Dizzy?"

  Her nose wrinkled impatiently.

  "How's the head?"

  "There's a very good chance—" she coughed again, and he snatched up the water bottle on the tray and guided the straw to her mouth "—I'll live," she finished hoarsely, leaning back against her pillows.

  He fought back a grin.

  Oh, God, he'd nearly lost her.

  Those wide gray eyes saw far too much. The teasing went out of them, and they got all soft and sympathetic, making him feel even more useless.

  "You told me I was a survivor," she reminded him gently.

  "Yeah." Restless, he turned, paced the two short steps to the curtain and back again. She was so brave. Her strength humbled him. "The fire inspector said you really kept your head. Used the fridge as a fire barrier."

  Her fingers plucked the sheet over her legs. "It's not like I had a lot of … options at that point."

  She wheezed the last words, choked and coughed. As she leaned forward to spit, another, more violent fit of coughing shook her. His heart rolled over.

  "Easy, sweetheart." He moved to the side of the bed, bracing her forehead on his shoulder, supporting her with his arm.

  Her lungs rattled as she fought to draw breath. Grabbing the plastic oxygen mask, be held it to her face, helpless to ease her breathing, helpless against the terror that constricted his own chest.

  She pushed it impatiently away. "My restaurant…?" She choked and tried again. "My apartment…?"

  He heard the rest of her unspoken questions, her unanswered fears. His arms tightened as he steeled himself to reply, to share the things her doctors hadn't known and her parents hadn't seen fit to tell her.

  "You sure you want to go into that now?"

  Her gaze searched his face. "Gone?"

  Hell. "Yeah."

  She closed her eyes. He felt the shudder that racked her, saw the tears that slipped beneath her eyelids.

  "It's okay," he murmured into her hair. He gathered her closer against his heart. Her grief shook them both, and her tears burned him like cinders, hot and bright. "Sh, sweetheart, it's okay."

  He rocked her as she gasped and keened. Her IV bag swung gently on its pole. Her hair was gritty against his cheek and smelled of hospital soap and smoke. He adjusted her mask and held on.

  She'd lost everything, he realized. In the space of a single afternoon, her home, her sanctuary, her place of business and her means of independence had all gone up in smoke. The painted tables and butter-hued walls, the stacks of dishes and rows of pots were gone. Her livelihood was gone. The tree of earrings that stood on her dresser, her posters, her pillows, her bed, all gone.

  He wanted to make it better. He wanted to make it up to her, and he had no solutions, nothing but the poor shelter of his arms and the poor consolation of his words.

  "Dixie." He stroked her back. He kissed her hair, while her sobs softened against his shirt and her breathing eased. "It will be all right."

  He wasn't sure how, but he would make it all right.

  Her hands clenched the borrowed hospital top convulsively, as if she were afraid he would leave her. Hell, he wasn't going anywhere.

  Not without her.

  He wondered how she'd adjust to Boston.

  * * *

  With a start, Val woke, bewildered by pain and the flat, hard pillow and steel rail of her bed. And was instantly reassured by Con's presence beside her.

  Hospital room. She'd been moved to a private hospital room. Con had stationed himself in the sole recliner, controlled even in sleep, his arms folded against his chest, his raised feet crossed at the ankles. The filtered light revealed his shadowed beard, his compressed mouth, the lines of pain between his brows. A cracked rib, he'd told her, when she pressed. He should have gone home with his brother.

  She turned her head to read the digital clock by the bed: six forty-five. White light outlined the heavy curtains. She could hear the lift of nurses' voices and the rattle of a cart outside. They'd be in soon, she guessed, with breakfast. He must have stayed with her all night.

  "Dixie? You awake?"

  He was watching her, his heavy-lidded eyes concerned. His soft question released a flood inside her. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, leaked from her eyes.

  "Hey." He stirred, shifted and sat on the bed beside her. "Hey, now, it's all right."

  Once again, he rocked her against his chest, held her as she cried. He was a haven when her haven had been destroyed, wrapping her in the strength of his embrace, in the warmth of his low voice. She burrowed against his solid chest, drawing comfort from the steady beat of his heart under her ear.

  "Sorry." She sniffled.

  He handed her a tissue. His matter-of-fact thoughtfulness nearly started the tears again.

  She blew her nose. "Thank you," she said, her words muffled by the tissue.

  The ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "It's nothing."

  "Not for the tissue. For everything."

  "Forget it."

  "I can't forget it. You were there for me, and I'm grateful."

  "Maybe I was there, but I sure as hell didn't do anything. I didn't protect you."

  "You punched out Rob."

  "Sunk to his level, don't you mean? Yeah, that was real effective."

  She dropped her hands to her lap and sat a moment regarding him. His mouth was compressed, his blue eyes bleak. He believed what he was saying, she realized. He actually believed his championship did nothing for her.

  "Look, I'm uncomfortable enough telling you how much I need you," she drawled. "Can't you just say 'you're welcome,' so we can drop the subject?"

  That dragged a reluctant laugh from him. But he sat up straighter, shifting away from her on the bed.

  "Dixie, I'd love to take your gratitude and anything else you feel like giving away. But the fact is, I haven't earned it. I talked with the police again last night. If all they can charge Rob with is aggravated assault, the guy will walk."

  She swallowed a lump of cold dismay. "The arson?"

  "They're working on it. If they can prove he set the fire and left you there, they could put him away for attempted murder."

  "That's good, then."

  "If the lab results are conclusive. And if they can demonstrate motive. If he was stealing from you, that would go a long way in establishing both revenge and cover-up. The problem is I still haven't figured how to prove he was taking your money."

  "Is that really your responsibility?"

  "I'm making it my responsibility."

  She arched her eyebrows. "'Define the problem, solve the problem'?"

  He flushed, but he didn't yield. "Yeah."

  He was so hard, so uncompromising in his integrity and his support. And right now he was beating himself up because he believed he'd failed her. Something twisted in her chest.

  "Maybe you need to redefine the problem," she said.

  "And how do you suggest I do that?"

  "I don't know." She met his gaze directly, willing him to accept the faith in her eyes. "But I do know you. You'll think of something
."

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  «^

  Con strode up the crumbling walk that led to the women's shelter, a book for Mitchell in his hand and the name of a lawyer for Ann in his pocket. Poor kid. Poor woman. He'd promised Val he'd stop by to see how they were dealing with Rob's arrest.

  It was something he could do.

  He gave his name through the door and waited while the gaunt Hispanic woman sitting guard checked it against her list of approved visitors and took his driver's license. The door chain rattled as she handed it back.

  "Just a moment," she told him.

  He tucked his hands in his back pockets and waited some more. He was glad Ann had this measure of protection. Val wouldn't Last night, Con had called Boston, canceling his dinner with Grandison and postponing his flight to the six-forty-five tomorrow morning. But he had interviews scheduled at Ventucom all tomorrow afternoon. If Rob were released by then…

  The thought made Con sweat.

  But if he could establish felony larceny, the police would hold Cross for another seventy-two hours. The detective in charge of the case had said so.

  Con paced the porch. Lack of proof was the problem. Without a paper trail, he needed someone to finger Rob. Too bad Donna Winston spent her breaks hiding out from Val in the ladies' room.

  What had the teller said? I don't even like seeing her face, all right? She had him, and I want him.

  And just like that, the penny dropped.

  He stopped, staring at the closed door while his mind reeled. Ann and Val. Impossible to confuse them. No two women could appear more different. And yet they shared something. Two things: Rob and Wild Thymes.

  She had him, and I want him.

  Con had assumed the teller was referring to Rob's broken engagement to Val. But what if she'd been talking about his failed marriage to Ann all along?

  Redefine the problem, Val urged inside his head. All this time, he'd been trying to figure how the money could disappear from the bank without leaving a trail, how Rob could remove cash from the teller's desk without being caught. What if he'd gone at it wrong? What if the money disappeared before it ever reached the bank counter?

  The door cracked open on its six-inch chain, and Ann stood framed by the shadows of the hall.

  "Con? What are you doing here?"

  Could he really believe this thin, quiet woman with her swollen face had helped defraud her best friend of almost twenty thousand dollars?

  "I brought Mitchell a book," he said, holding it out. "And I hoped we could talk."

  "What about?" she asked.

  "Could I have a minute?"

  Her clear green eyes, amazingly sane in her crazy quilt of a face, inspected him through the opening in the door. And then her shoulders slumped, and she nodded.

  "Yes. All right." The crack narrowed as she undid the chain. She stepped out on the porch. "How is Val?"

  "Better."

  "Thank the Lord. I… Well, I'm glad."

  "Yeah, my sister-in-law says they'll probably release her tomorrow." He watched her closely as she sat on the low, square balustrade of the porch. "Same as Rob, I guess."

  She looked up, her distress evident and real. "Oh, surely not? He attacked her."

  Gently, be said, "He's been hitting you for years. Why should this be any different?"

  "Val's not his wife," Ann said with a simplicity that made Con wince.

  Never mind. So, he was a jerk. Solve the problem, MacNeill. "Well, according to the detective, once Rob posts bond, he's still free until the case goes to trial. Or unless…"

  "Unless what?"

  "Unless he could be charged with something else. If the charge was serious enough, he'd have to appear before the magistrate again."

  She hugged her elbows. "How serious?"

  "Embezzlement?" Con suggested.

  Ann closed her eyes. He had her. The thought brought him no pleasure at all.

  "Val told me you operated the cash register," he continued evenly. "Seated the customers, typed the menus. Ran errands, she said. Ann… Did you ever take the daily deposits to the bank for her?"

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "And what did you do with them?"

  "I brought them to Rob. It started … I was there, I was his wife. I thought it looked strange not to stop in to say hello?" She opened her eyes, looking at him as if anxious to see if he understood.

  Con didn't understand at all. But he nodded.

  "'Leave it with me,' he'd say. 'I'll get it deposited.' I didn't see why not. Only then … Val started to worry so about money, and I wondered…"

  A weight like a sackful of quarters rolled off Con's shoulders. "You didn't take the money yourself?"

  "Oh, no. No. I feel so stupid," she cried. "But by the time I suspected what Rob was doing, it didn't matter."

  "Did he threaten you? Hurt you?"

  "Oh." She shrugged. Her matter-of-fact acceptance was more chilling than a blow-by-blow account. "It wasn't that. He told me the police would never believe me. He said he'd tell Chief Palmer it was me, that I took the money. And after that, he made me watch and then take the deposit bag to Cheryl myself. That made me an accomplice, at least. I'd go to jail, and Mitchell … I couldn't leave Mitchell alone in that house with him."

  "No," Con agreed quietly. "You couldn't do that."

  "I guess I hoped … I thought once I left he might stop."

  "Instead of which, he probably worried you'd confess and decided to burn down Val's restaurant."

  Ann flinched. "Yes." She let her hands lie in her lap, palms up, empty like her eyes. "What happens now?"

  "Will you go with me to the police? If they can establish motive, it might make the arson easier to prove. Rob could go away for a long, long time."

  "I can't. I can't risk losing Mitchell."

  "Val is your friend."

  "And Mitchell is my son," she said fiercely.

  "Ann, your best chance of being there for him is getting your story to the police. The court will look at your record. You won't do time for this."

  She looked out over the dusty yard and then back at him. "You'll go with me?"

  "Yes."

  "And be there for Mitchell, if … if I have to stay?"

  "You won't have to stay."

  "But if I do?"

  Val had told him not to get involved unless he was prepared to deal with the consequences.

  "Yes," he promised.

  "All right. I can't let my husband hurt Val anymore. She deserves better."

  He covered one of her thin, cold hands with his. "So do you. I'll talk with the detective. You'll probably get off with probation."

  "Wouldn't that be nice," she said with a sarcasm that took him aback. But her fingers closed on his.

  "Thank you," she said. "I am so very sick of lying."

  * * *

  Val adjusted the cant of her hospital bed and the droop of her hospital gown and the thin, clear tubing that still ran into the back of her hand. She lifted the steel cover on her dinner tray without much hope or interest.

  Macaroni and cheese. The rising steam, thick with gluten and processed cheddar, conjured up the meal she'd shared with Con that last night in her apartment. Her heart squeezed with loss and loneliness.

  He hadn't been to see her all day. In the morning, the detective came with his notebook and questions. Her mother visited, bringing a tasteful arrangement of chrysanthemums and two new magazines, and sat with her for an uncomfortable half hour. Kate MacNeill showed up in the afternoon to look at her chart and listen to her lungs and share the news that Rob Cross had been charged with arson and attempted murder. Which explained, Val supposed, why Ann had not dropped by.

  And still Con did not come.

  Her need for him shamed her.

  She coughed and turned on the wall TV for company. As two stiff-haired, smiling newscasters discussed the hot temperatures and the Mudcats' chances against the Kings, she ate tasteless iceberg lettuce that scr
aped her throat and pale wedges of tomato with dressing that came in a foil packet.

  She was going to eat all of her square of chocolate cake. She felt very sorry for herself.

  A smoking ruin with the news station's logo blazoned in the corner jumped on the screen.

  "And after the break," the female anchor promised, "scenes from a restaurant fire in Cutler where the police suspect foul play."

  The macaroni and cheese stuck in Val's throat. She turned off the TV and closed her eyes.

  She would deal with it tomorrow, she resolved. Tomorrow she would assess the damage, begin the cleanup and figure how to get on with her life.

  "Me and Scarlett O'Hara," she muttered.

  "What's that?" Con's deep voice asked from somewhere beyond the foot of her bed.

  Squelching her instinctive leap of joy, she opened her eyes. "Tomorrow is another day."

  "Yeah. Sure." He strolled forward, bending to kiss her as naturally as a husband at the end of a long day. Her breath came short. "How are you doing?"

  Lousy. Her painkillers made her groggy. She was smoke-sick and heartsick from the fire and moping because she hadn't seen him all day.

  "Fine. Kate says the airway trauma will take a while to heal. Blood gases are better. She told me Rob was being charged with setting the fire and—" trying to kill me, she thought "—everything."

  "Yeah." Con folded himself into the recliner where he'd spent last night.

  "I don't know how you did it, but … thank you."

  "I just redefined the problem, like you said. Your friend Ann did the rest."

  "Ann?"

  He hesitated, his sharp blue gaze assessing.

  "Tell me," Val insisted.

  So she had no one but herself to blame when he did. She understood Ann's motives and her anguish. She forgave her friend's betrayal. But it was another blow when Val was already on her knees, another reminder that she had no one to rely on but herself.

  "Ann said she was sorry," Con repeated. "She never meant to hurt you. She wanted me to ask if she could come see you tomorrow."

  "Of course she can come," Val said automatically. "But—"

  The door to the hall edged open.

  "Knock, knock," a cheerful masculine voice called.