On the table, the local newspaper lay open to the page with the listings of apartments for rent. He’d skimmed the ads once and would go over them more diligently with a pen after he’d decided that finding an apartment was the right thing to do.
Life had been easier when he’d been sure of right and wrong. Five years ago, he’d been sure that bringing Cortez back to face justice in California was right, and that whatever he and Gallard had to do to make that happen was right. He’d been convinced that hiding his mission from Emmie had been right, too. Yet last night, when she’d called him a liar...it didn’t seem right in retrospect.
Could he have told her the truth back then? He’d promised Gallard he wouldn’t discuss their. plans with anyone except the local police department, but suppose he hadn’t made that promise. Suppose he’d told Emmie what he’d come to San Pablo to do.
She would have rejected him, he was sure. She’d been a proper, well-bred Southern lady, not a woman who would want to pal around with a bounty hunter’s assistant. She would never have agreed to have supper with him, never have danced in his arms on the plaza, never have taken him to church and her host family’s casa, never have stood with him in his grandparents’ dilapidated house. Never have made love with him.
It was worth being a liar to have had a chance with her. He wasn’t even sure he’d lied, technically. But if he had, he didn’t regret it. His lie had freed Emmie to love him.
And to hate him, if last night was any indication.
So much time had passed between her loving him and last night. He’d entered into his current mission—tracking her down—despite Maggie Tyrell’s warnings about how he might not find what he was looking for when Finders, Keepers located Emmie. And he’d been okay with that prospect, fully prepared to accept that Emmie might not welcome him back into her life. He’d assured himself that all he wanted was to try to connect with her, not to force a reconciliation. He’d hoped she would be willing to hear him out so he could tell her what had happened, but he hadn’t dared to wish for more.
That was before he’d seen the boy, though.
Now he had other ideas, other plans. Now he was scanning the listing of apartments for rent, thinking he ought to settle into Wilborough, Massachusetts, for a while.
He could work in Wilborough as easily as he’d been working in the Bay Area. He’d left academia to do consulting and discovered that private companies hoping for business in Latin America were eager to pay huge sums to people like him, who could interpret not just the language but the culture for them. Occasionally he oversaw research initiatives for the government, as well, helping to shape position papers and offering guidance to various departments—Agriculture and Commerce and sometimes one of the intelligence agencies. But the big money was in the private sector, and Michael earned a generous share of it.
He’d collected his voice mail before leaving his room for the diner. Nowadays all a person needed to do the kind of consulting he did was a computer with Internet access, a fax machine, a phone, occasional airplane tickets and an abundance of insider knowledge.
He had his laptop back at the hotel, with a builtin modem that enabled him to fax files and link up with the net His room had a phone, and he was sure Wilborough had a travel agent or two. He carried his insider knowledge with him wherever he went.
But he sure would like a kitchen, so he could make his own breakfast.
He drained his cup of coffee and decided not to wait for another refill. After slapping some money down on the table, he folded the newspaper and headed back across the street to his room. The morning was damp with fog. Everything looked like a shadow of itself, as if he were observing his surroundings through smudged eyeglasses.
He’d never talked about fog with Emmie. Or rain. It rained so rarely in San Pablo in the spring he and she had never gotten caught in a downpour together. They’d never huddled beneath an umbrella, raindrops plastering their hair to their cheeks. Not once in their whirlwind romance had they ever discussed the weather.
How on earth could he have thought they’d be able to rebuild a relationship out of the splintered fragments he’d left behind when he fled from San Pablo? Just because she’d been so easy to talk to about the hard things, like Johnny’s death and his father’s pride, didn’t mean she would be easy to talk to about the simple things, like whether it was going to rain that afternoon.
He reminded himself that he hadn’t tracked Emmie down to Wilborough to rekindle their love. He’d come to ask her forgiveness—and so far, he hadn’t even accomplished that. How could he even be considering finding a local apartment?
The boy.
He spread the newspaper out across his bed, next to it a map, and circled the rentals that sounded interesting in Wilborough and. the adjacent towns. By the time he was done, it was nearly seven-thirty San Francisco time. Too early to call the Tyrells, but he was getting restless.
He dialed Maggie’s number. After two rings, the phone was answered by her machine: “You have reached Finders, Keepers Detective Agency. Our office hours are 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. If you would like to leave a message, please wait for the tone.”
Michael listened to a hiss, then a beep. “This is Michael Molina, calling from Massachusetts. Maggie, could you please tell your brother Jack that the boy’s name is Jeffrey? Jeffrey Kenyon, I guess—but I’m not sure. Maybe Jeffrey Molina. Not likely, but maybe. Tell him to try Jeffrey Kenyon. Tell him if the boy is mine, he would have to be turning five years old some time in February. Tell Jack I’ll call him later today, or he can call me here.” He recited the Holiday Inn’s phone number, then hung up and swore under his breath. The chance that the boy’s name was Jeffrey Molina were zero to none.
The phone sat inert on the night table. He had to get out of the room.
After folding the paper open to the apartment listings, he pocketed the room key and left.
It was stupid to choose an apartment based on its proximity to Emmie’s house, but hers was the only residential neighborhood he’d spent any time in, so he figured it was as good a place as any to begin his search. He drove through the dank morning, passing gas stations, fast-food joints and supermarket minimalls until he reached the intersection that would take him off the commercial strip into her community. He had memorized the route, and it took only a few minutes for him to reach Cullen Drive.
The fog snagged on tree branches like a gauzy cloth. The road shone beneath a layer of moisture. The houses looked brightly colored, their painted shingles and shutters vivid in contrast to the gray air around them. As he neared Emmie’s block, he saw a blurred rectangle beside her driveway.
He slowed as he approached it, frowning as he tried to make out the object. A sign of some sort, he realized. Coasting closer, he began to decipher the words on the sign: a national realty chain, and in big block letters FOR SALE.
He slammed on the brake, but given how slowly he’d been driving, his car didn’t screech to a halt. Tiny drops of water beaded on his windshield, and he flipped on the wipers, as if they could clear away the sight on the other side of the glass. But the sign remained at the foot of her driveway. FOR SALE.
Why hadn’t she told him she was moving? Had she been so upset last night that she’d let this one trivial aspect of her life slip her mind? Or did she believe Michael had no right to know what was going on?
Had she planned to escape from town while he wasn’t looking, and leave no forwarding address? Was it possible that she and the boy were already gone?
He turned off the engine and raced up the driveway, trying to ignore the unnatural thudding of his heart. He’d spent so much time searching for the courage to come after her—and more time searching for her. Could she have vanished during the flip of a calendar page?
If she had, would he have to start all over again in his search for her? Or would he do the smart thing and go home?
Shielding his eyes, he peered through one of the windows. Her living room was still furnished—not just furnished
, but filled with signs of life—a news magazine on the coffee table, a couple of stuffed animals on the sofa, the coat closet open to display a rod full of coats and jackets in both adult and child sizes. Even if she’d left her furniture and magazines behind, she wouldn’t have forgotten to take Jeffrey’s and her own coats with her when she departed from Wilborough.
So she hadn’t moved yet. But pivoting on the front porch, he saw the For Sale sign again, taunting him, reproaching him. She’s leaving, it seemed to shout. She’s going away, and you aren’t a part of her life. You have nothing to do with it.
But he did. He was here. He’d found her, come clean with her, told her everything he could. Apologized. Agonized. Prayed that she would understand.
And he’d seen the boy, her son, who looked too much like Michael.
He was a part of her life, damn it.
CHAPTER NINE
“WHAT’S THAT?” Jeffrey asked, aiming his finger at a sign posted near the driveway.
Emmie bit her lip. She could guess what it was, even from a block away. She’d been expecting it. But the reality of seeing it there, announcing to the world that the Kenyons were about to lose their home, made her stomach lurch and her throat go dry.
She swallowed and tried not to grimace at the taste of fear on her tongue. “It’s just a sign,” she said vaguely. Just a sign of how her carefully woven life was unraveling, strand by strand.
She could mope or she could get angry. She decided to get angry. Her landlord should have phoned and warned her that he’d listed the house with a real-estate agent. He could have discussed with her when the best time to start showing the house would be. Her lease didn’t expire until the end of June. He hadn’t had to put the house up for sale in mid-May, had he?
She liked her anger’s heat, the way it scorched through her. But anger didn’t come naturally to her, and she couldn’t keep it burning. The gray dampness of the day doused it, leaving her weary and uneasy.
At least Michael’s car wasn’t parked in front of her house. Maybe he felt he’d accomplished his mission last night. He’d poured out his story, disturbing though it was, and taken his leave. If he’d expected absolution, too bad. Emmie wasn’t sure she could forgive him for deceiving her—and she wasn’t exactly enthralled by his experiences with guns and killing.
But if he’d killed that man in self-defense, if it was payback for the death of his own brother...
Damn. How could she think about the For Sale sign on her front lawn when she was so torn up about Michael?
Maybe she did forgive him, or at least understand why he’d done what he’d done. Maybe sometimes a man had to pull the trigger to protect his friend or avenge his brother. Maybe, when a man swore to keep a secret, he was bound to honor that vow.
And maybe last night, she’d refused him the forgiveness he was seeking not because she couldn’t forgive him but because she honestly didn’t know how to make room for him in a life she’d spent five long years constructing so there would never, ever be room for him in it.
“It’s a sign, isn’t it, Mommy? What kind of sign is it?” Jeffrey persisted as she drove slowly down the street to the driveway. He could recognize a few words, but not those that appeared on the sign, thank goodness.
“I’m not sure,” Emmie said. “But once we get inside, I’m going to make a phone call and see if I can find out” The name of the real-estate company was printed on the sign. Perhaps Emmie could get information from the agent—although it still irked her that Mr. Arnett hadn’t been courteous enough to notify her before advertising to the world that his house was for sale.
She got out of the car to open the garage, then got back in and drove inside. The engine echoed in the enclosed space, a pleasant rumbling sound. She suffered a pang of nostalgia thinking about how much she would miss everything she’d loved about this house—its echoing garage, the faint smells of motor oil and gardening supplies that hung in the air, the hairline cracks in the cement floor.
Jeffrey unfastened his seat belt as soon as she turned off the motor. He grabbed his Sesame Street lunch box from the floor of the car and swung open the door, blissfully unaware of his mother’s angst. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, waiting impatiently while she collected her tote bag and purse from the backseat and rummaged for her key.
“I don’t know,” she said with a bleak sigh. After a long, restless night remembering the days she’d spent with Michael in San Pablo, followed by a busy day teaching, an hour spent grading papers once the children were dismissed, a stop at Sunny Skies Preschool to pick up Jeffrey and a drive home to discover the For Sale sign on her front lawn, she couldn’t begin to think about food.
Jeffrey must have sensed her troubled mood, because once they were inside he carried his lunch box quietly to the kitchen and emptied it without being told, then rinsed the thermos in the sink and threw away the crumbs, crusts and crumpled cellophane left over from his lunch. He looked grave, intent on his chore, not his usual bubbling self.
Emmie felt guilty for bringing his spirits down to the level of hers. “How about if we have breakfast for dinner?” she suggested. Bowls of cereal, bagels and orange juice were one of Jeffrey’s favorite dinners, not just because he loved breakfast food but because eating morning fare in the evening struck him as weird and therefore wonderful. Since Emmie had little appetite anyway, she might as well let Jeffrey eat something that would make him happy.
“Breakfast! Yeah!” He perked up, clomping his feet and smiling brightly.
“But first I have to make a phone call,” Emmie warned.
“Okay!” For the promise of cereal for dinner, Jeffrey would gladly stay out of her way for a few minutes.
He romped off, leaving silence in his wake. Emmie suppressed a shudder. It took so little to make him happy; once they moved, she might be able to buy his contentment with a bowl of Rice Krispies. He might not mind living in an apartment or a cramped condominium if he didn’t have to eat meat and vegetables at dinnertime.
Jeffrey’s happiness came more easily than her own, though. She was the one responsible for making a proper home—and nutritious meals—for him. Once she was forced to evacuate this house, she would feel like a failure.
Trying not to beat up on herself, she pulled the telephone directory from a shelf, found the listing for the realty office on the For Sale sign and dialed.
While the phone rang, she surveyed her kitchen. One of Jeffrey’s masterpieces, a crayon rendering of what appeared to be lollipops but Emmie knew were flowers, adorned the refrigerator door, held in place by magnets. She wanted to believe that Jeffrey’s artwork was what turned the house into their home, and that if she hung his artwork on any other refrigerator, the decoration would magically turn that new residence into a home. It wasn’t walls or floors or the arrangement of the windows—or even the garden, the monster in the crab-apple tree—that made this place a home. It was Jeffrey and her love for him.
A real-estate agent answered the phone and Emmie launched into a controlled tirade. She heard steel and the South in her voice as she began to recite her demands. Her drawl had eroded during her years in New England, but when she was riled it returned in certain words, certain inflections.
“Mommy?” Jeffrey hollered from another room.
Emmie tuned him out. She’d been trying to teach him all year not to interrupt her when she was on the phone, especially by bellowing from a distance. If he had a genuine emergency, he was either to find her or to shout “Emergency!” Otherwise he was to wait until she was off the phone.
Patience was not his long suit. Ignoring him only inspired him to shout louder. “Mommy! Someone’s at the door!”
Emmie sighed, then turned toward the counter as if to shield the phone. “Mr. Arnett promised me he’d give us plenty of warning before he listed the house,” she told the woman on the other end of the line. “I don’t know why he jumped the gun—our lease doesn’t expire until the end of June. He’s always been very considerate.”
“I assume you’re speaking of Mr. Arnett Senior,” the agent said. “It was his son who asked us to go ahead and list the house. I’m sorry there was a missed communication on your end, but Mr. Arnett’s son is the one calling the shots.”
“Mommy!” Jeffrey appeared before her, his eyes luminous with a combination of annoyance and excitement. “Didn’t you hear me? There’s a man at the door and he’s got KFC!”
Emmie pursed her lips, contemplating her options. If Mr. Arnett’s son was calling the shots, the damned For Sale sign would remain where it was. He was the one who wanted his father in Arizona and the house disposed of. As long as he was in charge, there was nothing she could do to slow the process.
And as if that wasn’t enough, some man was standing on her front porch with food from Jeffrey’s favorite purveyor of ready-to-eat chicken. “We’ll discuss this further,” she told the agent. “In the meantime, please make it clear that our house is not to be shown unless I’m present. As long as we’re living here, I’m not going to have strangers traipsing through while I’m not home.”
“I’ll make a note of it,” the agent promised.
“Thank you. Goodbye.” She hung up the phone and felt her shoulders slump. Jeffrey might believe that no problem was so formidable that it couldn’t be fixed with a serving of fried chicken, but Emmie knew better. Chicken or bagels and cereal, she still had no appetite.
However, she needed to see which kind neighbor of theirs had dropped by with food for her family. Probably it was Glenn Drinan from across the street. His wife might have sent him over with chicken and instructions to find out about the sudden appearance of the For Sale sign.
Jeffrey grabbed Emmie’s hand and dragged her through the hall to the front door. She peered through the window in the door and saw a man on her front porch, armed with a shopping bag with the chicken vendor’s logo printed on it. He wasn’t Glenn Drinan, though. He wasn’t any of her neighbors.
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