Love Rebuilt

by Stewart, Delancey

  My mind was spinning. “Your name is still on the deed?” I repeated. “Why would that be true?”

  “Just a minor oversight, love. I’ll have it handled.”

  I shook my head. I’d let Jack handle things for way too long. “I’ll add it to the long list of things to speak to my lawyer about. How did you know where to find me?”

  “Cute blond in the diner. What’s her name?”

  “None of your damned business,” I hissed.

  “An unfortunate moniker,” he said, his smile revealing the perfect teeth that I was considering punching my fist into.

  “Mads,” A gruff familiar voice came from behind me and I turned. Frank had wandered across the street while I’d been talking to Jack. “Everything okay here?” I felt a rush of affection to the older man. It was nice to know he was looking out for me.

  I nodded. “It’s fine, Frank. Thanks. Jack was just leaving.”

  Frank looked intimidating, even with his apron still tied around his waist. He was pulling a cigarette from a pack as he leaned somewhat menacingly toward Jack and then turned to me. “Better head back in before my better half blows a gasket. Your break ended fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Oh crap,” I turned on my heel and took a step away. “Thanks, Frank.”

  “Good photo, love,” Jack called. “Remember what we talked about.”

  Jack had spent more time in Kings Grove since we’d been divorced than he ever had when we’d been married. I wondered if I could be reimbursed somehow for all the irritation he’d caused me since I’d been legally unleashed from his side.

  * * *

  I drove home that evening in my new SUV, hesitantly admitting to myself that I enjoyed the way it cushioned the ride. Though the Jag had been fun, and had certainly fed the part of my ego that wanted to be envied—not a part of myself I was especially proud of—the crossover was a more practical choice in which to navigate the bumpy potholed mountain roads in the village. My spine wasn’t jarred with every bump, and I figured I should be grateful for that.

  My cell phone rang as I pulled up to the trailer. It was a Chicago area code and a number I didn’t recognize. My mind immediately jumped to Cameron, but I knew he had a Los Angeles area code. I hadn’t exactly kept up with him over the last three years, but I knew from Jess that he had not made a cross-country move to Chicago. And from what I understood, people from Southern California didn’t do so well in the wintry north of the Great Lakes region. Cameron was not exactly a pioneer. He worked in film production. Not a likely career in Chicago.

  My brain shifted as the phone rang again and I stared at it. Connor. Hadn’t he said he was from Chicago?

  I couldn’t help the quick scrabble I made to answer, excitement giving me sudden chills. “Hello?”

  “Hi Maddie.” Connor’s rich deep voice solidified the goose bumps that had crept over my skin.

  A strange mixture of excitement and fear rushed through me as I sat in the car pressing the phone to my ear. I realized I was smiling. “Hi.”

  “Is this a good time?”

  “Right now?” He wanted to go on our date right now?

  “Right. Yes. Is now a good time to talk?”

  “Oh. Talk.” I am an idiot. “Yes, it’s fine.”

  “I think that’s what these phone contraptions are designed for.” I could hear him smiling.

  “That’s my understanding, too.” I was definitely an idiot.

  “Excellent. Glad that’s settled.”

  I might have actually giggled. My nerves were jangling and my brain felt like butterscotch pudding.

  “So,” he said slowly. “Would you like to come over for dinner? Maybe the day after tomorrow?”

  “Dinner at your house?”

  “I’m not very comfortable in town at this point.” His voice had shifted from playful to frank and low. “Plus, I thought you might want a break from the diner. And maybe from your trailer.”

  “I do. Good point.” I wondered what in the world we would eat. It wasn’t like we could order in. Not that it really mattered. I wouldn’t even notice the food if I sat across a table from Connor, I’d be too distracted by his jaw, his hair, those searching eyes. Was he planning to cook, though? I had heard of men who could cook, but I’d never met one besides Frank at the diner. “Sure, uh, should I bring something?”

  “Wine?” he sounded uncertain. “I mean, I have some here. And you don’t really have to bring anything. But if you wanted to bring something.”

  “I can do that. Um…” My mind was still churning. Was I saying yes to this date? My body suggested that yes would be a good answer, and since my mind was stuck, my tongue forged ahead. “What time?”

  “Six?”

  “Okay.” I was still smiling. I couldn’t help it.

  “See you then.” He sounded relieved, and I was pretty sure I could still hear a smile in his voice.

  “Good night.” I ended the call and got out of the car.

  I decided to admit to myself that I was more intrigued by Connor than I was afraid of him. And I wanted to get to know him better.

  * * *

  Adele called the next morning as I was getting ready for work to tell me that she didn’t need me to come in. I peered out the window. Blue sky, light breeze. Winter was not here yet. But they’d told me things would slow down until Labor Day weekend, when we’d get a final bump of visitors before the whole park battened down the hatches. Not working was not going to help with my impending financial crisis.

  I had breakfast outside, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my back. The recent storm might have offered a taste of what was to come, but it was hard to be too wary when things still felt so placid sitting here beneath the swaying giants with the birds calling to one another from the ridges.

  I was going to see Connor tomorrow. At his house. My body tensed at the memory of the last time I’d been at his house. When I closed my eyes, I could see the way his body moved as he’d walked across the room, and how easily he’d hopped logs and navigated the woods with Austin on his shoulders. I could even imagine how it might feel to press myself into his arms, run a finger across those glorious lips.

  But I shouldn’t let my mind go there. That was definitely not the point of tomorrow night, I told myself. The point was to have a nice dinner with an attractive man, to get a momentary respite from the overwhelming crapstorm that my life had become. The point was to pretend, for a little while, that I was not a woman on the verge of becoming destitute and living in a trailer for the rest of my life, and to try not to envision Connor as a potential stalker or woman-beater.

  I had decided that Connor was just an unfortunate tabloid target, that the thing with Amanda was some kind of strange misunderstanding, and that he was just a normal guy. A normal guy who wrote really creepy books. And who’d had a few run-ins with people around town.

  I’d seen nothing to suggest that I should actually be worried, but I texted Miranda about my plans just in case, asking her to call me at ten and send the police if I didn’t answer. Just in case. After a few minutes, her shocked replies became less shocked, and she agreed.

  Until tomorrow evening, distraction would be the goal. Since I didn’t have to go to work, I decided to go for a hike instead. I’d just committed to this plan and gone inside when I heard the crunch of wheels on the dusty road outside. An unfamiliar car rested behind mine, but the men who climbed out of it and stood squinting at my half-built house and trailer were familiar enough.

  I pulled my hair back and struggled into some jeans before the knock came at the door.

  “Hi.” I stood looking at two police detectives on the other side of the screen.

  “Mrs. Douglas? Do you have a few moments to speak with us?” He held a badge up against the screen for me to see.

  “It’s Turner now,” I said, the correction coming as a reflex. I wanted nothing to do with Jack—not his person, not his name. I had no doubt that everything legal that pertained to the land I was standin
g on still said “Douglas,” and I needed to deal with that right away.

  “Sorry, uh, Ms. Turner.” The emphasis on the Ms was almost a question.

  “Divorced,” I said, stepping out the door. “We can talk out here.” I pointed to the table.

  “Thanks.” Both men sat stiffly at the picnic table. “I’m Detective Rawley. This is Jensen. We wanted to ask you a few questions about Connor Charles.”

  I tried to keep my face passive. I had wondered if I’d have to talk to the detectives eventually. “All right,” I said.

  “Do you know him?” Rawley asked, a pencil poised over a black moleskin notebook.

  “I’ve met him a couple times,” I told them. “I don’t know him well.” I was almost shaking with nerves, and couldn’t figure out why. Any time an authority figure questioned me about something though, I felt immediately guilty. It had made grade school particularly tough.

  They both nodded. “Can you describe your first meeting with him?”

  “Sure. He came up here. He was interested in buying the house.” I pointed at the skeleton framed next to us. Jensen’s attention seemed to stay focused on the monstrous ridiculousness of it while Rawley nodded again and turned back to me.

  “Is he going to buy it?”

  “No.”

  “Is it still for sale?”

  “Are you in the market?” I smiled.

  “No. Just curious.”

  “I’d consider selling,” I told him.

  “You’re not going to finish building it?”

  “I thought you were going to ask about Connor Charles.”

  He nodded again. Rawley’s thing seemed to be the knowing nod. It was already getting old. “So you didn’t sell him the house. But you met him again at some point?”

  “I, uh…I went to his house. To talk about potentially selling.”

  “When was this?”

  “Last week,” I said.

  “And again he did not want to buy?”

  “Right.”

  “Were you inside the house?” Jensen was watching me again. He had a hooked nose and wire glasses. He appeared to be the insightful observer of the pair.

  “For a little while.”

  “And what was Mr. Charles like during this time?”

  “He was polite.”

  “Was he receptive to your request for him to pose for photos?”

  My eyes snapped to his. “What?”

  “When he posed for you. Did he know you were taking his picture?”

  I nodded. “I always carry my camera. I’m a photographer.”

  “Anything published anywhere we would have seen?” Jensen was squinting at me now.

  “Doubtful,” I said, my mind still stuck on the fact that they knew about the photo. “Weddings and portraits mostly. And not for a while.”

  “So Mr. Charles was calm and polite, and he posed willingly for photos.”

  “Right. Um, can I ask how you knew I took a photo?”

  Jensen smiled and spoke for the first time since sitting down. “You can ask.”

  “But you won’t tell me.”

  He smiled again. I decided I liked it better when Jensen didn’t smile.

  “Did Mr. Charles do anything to frighten you? Did he threaten you? Touch you?”

  I shook my head.

  “You work at the diner, correct?”

  I nodded, stealing a move from Jensen’s book.

  “Do you know Amanda Terry?”

  “No, I don’t know her. I’ve seen her in the diner. But I’ve never talked to her.”

  “Ever see the two of them together?”

  “Never.”

  The officers looked at each other, passing some kind of knowledge. “Very good. Just a couple more questions, then.” Jensen stared at his notebook for a minute and then fixed me with a critical gaze. “What is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Charles?”

  That was the million dollar question right there. “I guess we’re acquaintances.”

  “A few folks around the village have mentioned seeing you together.”

  “Mr. Peters. Carol Skelling.” I was doing a mental inventory of people who might know I’d been seeing a bit of Connor, and the names popped out of my mouth.

  “Right. And your ex-husband, too.”

  My head snapped up. “What? Sorry?”

  “Mr. Douglas noted that you’d moved on from your marriage, that you’re dating Mr. Charles.”

  “Not that it’s any of his business at all, but that is false,” I told them. “We have never had anything that could be construed as a date.” Would Jack’s evil influence never end?

  “Okay, that’s fine.” Jensen wrote something down while Rawley nodded some more. “Well, I hope we’ll be welcome to return should we have further questions for you, Mrs. Douglas.”

  “Turner.”

  “Right. And here’s my number if you think of anything else we might need to know.” He handed me a small white card.

  I raised an eyebrow as I took it. I doubted I’d be thinking of anything else.

  They both nodded this time, and rose to leave.

  As I watched the dark car pull back down the hill I felt strangely violated. Their questions had been benign enough, but I sensed some deeper agenda. Did they know I was going to have dinner with Connor? Would it matter in any way? How would that affect his case, I wondered.

  More concerning, how did they know that I’d taken photos of him? Unless…my mind went back to Jack, seeing the picture over my shoulder. No doubt he was salivating, hoping I’d change my mind and decide to hang Connor out to dry by selling that photo to whatever dirt-digging friend he had in LA. I shook my head, annoyed that Jack had never known me well enough to understand that I couldn’t do that. Consciously deciding to hurt someone in order to further my own interests wasn’t in my nature. Or if it was, I’d have to be really damned desperate to do it. And I wasn’t that desperate.

  I returned to the trailer, laced up my boots and grabbed my camera bag to head out for a hike.

  Chapter 11

  Thanks to the police interruption, I got a later start than I’d intended, and decided to take the Ridgeline trail to the top of the ridge instead of heading out in the car to some more distant trailhead. It was nice being right on the edge of the National Forest. I could literally walk across the boundary between Park and Forest, and had seemingly endless wilderness as my next-door neighbor.

  The sun shone brightly above, but beneath the canopy of tree branches, it was shadowed and relatively cool. I picked my way up to the trail and then enjoyed following the dusty groove at a brisk pace up the side of the mountain. Living at six thousand feet might not have ever been my ideal, but it had definitely improved my cardiovascular fitness. I was only a tiny bit out of breath after hiking at a steady pace for the better part of an hour.

  I paused at different points to capture things along the way with my camera. There wasn’t much wildlife out, which surprised me. Usually, on a weekday when there were fewer people up and down the trails, one could find deer, martens, or even the occasional bear crossing the trail. I wasn’t eager to bump into a bear, but it might be worth it for the photos.

  Just as I had the thought near the top of the tree line, I heard a scraping noise off the side of the trail. I wondered if it was a bear, and briefly considered following John Trench’s example and seeking it out. I stood still and listened, and the scratching noise continued, then stopped. It began again, and then stopped again. I stood long enough to realize that there was a rhythm to it. This was not a bear. And there was a slightly metallic sound to the noise, a grating of metal and stone. If it wasn’t a bear, what in the world was it?

  My feet decided to find out before my mind had consciously joined in the plan. I walked softly through the matted pine needles and sticks littering the ground, stopping each time I broke a twig, sending a crackling noise ricocheting through the trees. The Native Americans who had once lived up here had supposedly known how to
walk silently through these forests. How the hell had they done that, with this crap all over the ground? Maybe my clunky boots were to blame. They probably had moccasins. I frowned. I wasn’t going to be wearing moccasins any time soon. Much too 1984 for me.

  I crept through the shadows, approaching the noise, and almost gave myself away when I spotted a familiar blazing auburn head in front of me. Connor stood in a shallow hole, shirtless, his muscled torso glistening with sweat in the sunlight. His back was to me, and I’d been quiet enough that he hadn’t turned to see what or who might be approaching.

  John Trench’s story came back to me, and I wondered if Connor would shout at me if he saw me. I knelt down low, hoping that if he turned this way, he’d be looking at eye level and not at the base of the big tree only ten feet or so behind him.

  There was a bulky bag next to the hole he was digging, black and awkwardly shaped. Fear spiked through me. Was this where he buried the women? Was Amanda Terry in that bag?

  Connor put the shovel down briefly and picked up a bottle of water. He stood tall and leaned his head back, drinking, and I couldn’t help but marvel at the strength evident in the body that stood before me. Hard planes of muscle stretched down the length of his back, making a hard ridge on either side of his spine. My eyes were drawn to the waistband of his pants, where they sat low against that solid back. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t look strong. And though I found him incredibly sexy, as I crouched in the cover of the forest watching him dig a secret hole, I realized that all that power was also frightening.

  He picked the shovel up again and resumed digging. The hole didn’t look like I imagined a grave would. It wasn’t long and narrow. It was more of a circle. But then again, if he was burying Amanda, she might be in pieces. She definitely wasn’t in a coffin. My stomach turned as I had that thought. He probably didn’t need a traditional grave-shaped hole. I shook my head slowly, amazed by the direction my thinking had suddenly taken. Fear began to bubble inside me. What if he caught me here?

  I cowered in the shadow and instinct kicked in. I quietly raised my camera to my eye, snapping a couple quick shots before backing very slowly away. The farther I got from Connor, the more terrified I became at the implications of what I’d just seen. He was at least a half-mile off the trail, and he’d certainly believed, as I had, that he’d be one of the only people up here today.