In a rusty voice, he mumbled, “Mrs. Donovan. I’m sorry.” Inadequate words. Goddamn it, he’d waxed eloquent in interviews after winning at Daytona and Darlington, but he was as tongue tied as a teenager on his first date in front of these two strangers.
She crossed the room, tall and graceful, and smiled sadly at him. Close up, her brown-as-chestnut eyes were bloodshot and a little puffy, like she’d been crying. Free of any cosmetics, her skin was spattered with freckles. “No, Mr. Quaid, I’m sorry. For what Ronny did.”
Honesty made him say, “Understandable.”
“Unacceptable,” she answered. “He had no right…”
Tucker held her gaze, dumbstruck by what he saw there. No blame, no bitterness that he’d ruined her life. There was only cold acceptance.
Grayson broke the tense stare-off. “Shall we sit?”
Crumpling up his cup and tossing it into a rank-smelling trash can, Tucker dropped into a chair.
“Want some coffee, Bethy?” Grayson asked.
Beth Donovan nodded. “I think we’ll be here awhile.”
Her brother had poured her a cup and one for himself, when the door to the holding room opened. The muscle-bound lieutenant with a jaw made of stone nodded to Beth. “Good, you’re here, Beth.” He glanced at her brother. “Reverend.”
Surprise ambushed Tucker and he blurted out, “Reverend?”He studied the man, seeing a boxer, or even a construction worker, in the solid wiry form that sported jeans, a flannel shirt and a quilted vest. His face was stubbled with a growth of beard, and his dark hair brushed his collar; he didn’t look like any minister Tucker had ever seen.
Despite the circumstances, all three people smiled, even the stand-at-attention lieutenant. “A common reaction,” Grayson said. “I don’t look the type.”
“It’s ’cause you’re not,” Beth told him affectionately. This, at least, brought a sparkle to her eyes.
Lieutenant Pratt quelled another smile and nodded. “I’m glad you’re here, in any case. Ronny’s more surly than usual.”
Beth drew in an anxious breath. Linc reached for her hand and pulled her up. “We’ll deal with this, honey. Let’s go in.”
“You, too, Mr. Quaid.” The cold reserve of the lieutenant made the Graysons appear downright cozy with him. Doc had warned him that even though the town council had literally begged Tucker to come to Glen Oaks, some people would treat him like a leper.
Which was just fine with him. He’d lived the last ten years in an emotional wasteland, and he planned to keep it that way. Especially while he was in Glen Oaks.
The holding room was smaller than the waiting area. The air bore the faint scent of sweat. Straight-back chairs were pushed up to an old wooden table; one seat was already occupied by the young man of the hour—knees spread, head bent, hands linked together. When they entered, the boy looked up. Tucker expected the insolence Pratt had mentioned and which he’d seen earlier. Instead, when Ron Donovan’s eyes landed on his mother, there was only sadness in them. He said nothing, though, just stared at her.
Linc spoke first. “You okay, buddy?”
Transferring his gaze to his uncle, the boy nodded.
After a moment, Beth crossed to her son and squeezed his shoulder. She bent down and whispered something to him, making his head droop lower. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Gently she kissed his hair.
Averting his gaze, Tucker took in the white walls covered with WANTED posters, the overhead fluorescent lighting and a phone on the square table; he looked anywhere but at mother and son.
Beth asked the lieutenant, “What’s going to happen now, Mike?”
Small towns. Tucker had forgotten what they were like. He’d buried all memories of the backwater village in South Carolina where he’d grown up almost as deep as he’d buried his recollection of that life-altering day here in Glen Oaks ten years before.
Pratt dropped his file on the table and indicated they should sit. When all five were settled, the officer said, “He’s had his last chance, Beth, you know that. When he ripped off those boots.” The cop’s gaze hardened. “And his grandparents aren’t going to pull strings this time, like they did before.”
“I know.” She stared at her son, but again not like he was some alien creature, whose behavior was foreign to her. It was as if she understood him. Felt bad for him. Tucker didn’t get it.
“But that was a year ago.” This from Uncle Linc. “He’s been straight since then.”
“I realize that.” Pratt shot a quick glance at Tucker. “But I also know he’s been in trouble at school since the end of February.”
When The Menace had returned to Glen Oaks. The cause of the boy’s backsliding was obvious. Tucker wanted to squirm on the hard chair like a kid in the principal’s office, but forced himself to sit still. Nobody spoke.
Then Pratt focused in on the mother. “I’m going to arrest him for this, Beth.”
Her little gasp knifed Tucker low in the belly.
“He just turned seventeen.” Her voice was close to a whisper. “He’ll have a record as an adult if you do that.”
Blowing out a frustrated breath, the officer shook his head. “He knew all this, didn’t you, Ron?”
The boy ran his finger over one of the scars in the table. “I knew.”
“You want to go to jail, Ronny?” Linc asked.
His gaze still lowered, Ron shook his head.
“Then why’d you do this?”
The boy’s head came up fast, and this time his face was surly; he looked loaded for bear.
Grayson told him, “It’s gotta come out, Ron. You gotta see it.”
“I see it.” He spat out the words.
The minister surfaced from inside the uncle. “You’re having trouble with Mr. Quaid’s return to Glen Oaks, aren’t you?”
“I don’t give a shit about Mr. Quaid.”
“I wish you wouldn’t swear in front of your mother, bud.”
Ron actually bit his lip. “Sorry.”
Man, this whole thing was out of kilter, Tucker thought. The kid had just committed a crime, and they were on him about swearing. But it wasn’t just that. There was no animosity among the three of them.
“Look, I did this,” Ron admitted. “I gotta pay.”
“You don’t know what you’re in for, honey,” Beth said with surprising strength. “There’ll be a heavy penalty this time.”
The grim resignation in her voice moved Tucker to action. “What if I don’t press charges?” he asked, unplanned, and maybe unwisely.
Four heads snapped around to look at him.
Bitter hate flared from the boy’s eyes. “Don’t do me any favors.”
Pratt scowled. “It isn’t that easy, Mr. Quaid. He committed a crime. The damage was thousands of dollars. I can’t let it go.”
“Why would you want to, Mr. Quaid?” Beth asked. “He destroyed your car.”
Tucker was stunned by the question. “How can you ask that?”
A kaleidoscope of feelings bounced crazily around them, rearranging the emotional landscape too fast to follow. Tucker scraped back his chair, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet room. “Obviously my comin’ here has brought on a fall from grace in the boy.”
The reverend gave a wry grin. “From grace is a pretty big stretch, but you’ve got the gist of it.”
“Look, I don’t condone what he did. But there seem to be extenuatin’ circumstances.”
“That’s an excuse,” Pratt said, shaking his head. “I won’t let him off scot-free.”
Linc’s eyes narrowed. “How about having the Council make a recommendation to the court?”
“The what?” Tucker asked.
“The Community Youth Council. An organization comprised of the police, the school, a community representative, the Social Service agency in town and a member of the clergy.” Linc smiled sadly. “Glen Oaks has a long-standing problem with the youth of this town. It has something to do with the influence of the race tr
ack and our proximity to New York City. We’ve established a council to set up programs to keep the kids straight, and our own kind of lay court to deal with minor transgressions. We also make recommendations to the judge.”
“This crime is more than minor,” the lieutenant put in.
“But the circumstances are unusual. And since Mr. Quaid has indicated an understanding, maybe this is the best route to go.”
“I don’t like it.” Pratt’s face was implacable.
“You’ve been pleased with Ronny’s turnaround this last year.”
“I have.”
“At least let the committee meet. You’re on the Council. You know we don’t let the kids off scot-free, Mike.”
Pratt jangled the keys attached to his belt loop and stared at the floor thoughtfully. “All right. Try to call it for Friday night.” He faced Tucker. “You think about this, Mr. Quaid.”
“Sure.” Tucker had no intention whatsoever of thinking about whether or not he was gonna hurt this family again.
Glancing at the clock, Pratt stood. “Take him home, Beth.” He zeroed in on Ron. “It’s not over, kid.”
Ron stared sullenly at him. Everyone rose.
Beth said, “Linc, take Ronny out to the car, will you? I’d like to talk to Mr. Quaid for a minute.”
Her brother gave her a sideways glance, and her son glared at her.
“Stay here.” Pratt headed for the door with Linc and Ron. “I’ll walk you two out.”
Tucker’s heartbeat speeded up like he was about to circle around a hairpin turn. His palms began to sweat. He’d been staying out at the lake with Doc and avoided this woman since he’d come back to Glen Oaks three weeks before; he’d planned to keep his distance for the six months he’d be here.
They were alone all too soon.
Tucker swallowed hard and faced her.
Huge brown eyes stared up at him. Again he was surprised there was no anger in them, no blame. Having grown up with animosity as a daily diet, Tucker didn’t know how to digest Beth Donovan’s attitude at all.
*
“WHAT’D YOU WANNA talk to me about, Mrs. Donovan?” As in the pictures she’d seen of him, before and after the accident, Beth noted how hard Tucker Quaid’s face was. His jaw was granite-edged, his mouth stem and unsmiling. But she knew a living, breathing man suffered inside the expensive leather jacket and tailored pants and shirt he wore. In the weeks following the crash, a few of the photos had captured a tortured look on his face. There’d also been the letter he’d written her, full of remorse. He’d offered financial assistance, which she’d of course declined.
Setting her purse down on the table, she straightened her shoulders and stuck her hands into the pockets of her nylon jacket. If nothing else since Danny’s death, she’d gotten tougher. “I wanted to thank you for what you’re doing for Ronny.”
A quick glint of something—annoyance, or maybe just guilt—flickered in his green eyes. Right now they were hard and flat, the color of jade. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Many people wouldn’t.”
His gaze slipped from her to the WANTED posters on the wall. His sigh was evident in the movement of his shoulders.
“I just want you to know I appreciate it.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “And the whole town appreciates your coming back to help us out.”
Still nothing.
“Why are you here?”
He faced her, almost against his will. The stoic mask was in place, though his light complexion was flushed. Rotely, as if he were reading from one of the publicity flyers, he said, “I’m here at the request of the town council to help revive the economy of Glen Oaks. My reputation as a driver, along with Doc Holt’s as my former crew chief, has attracted the best NASCAR drivers in the world for an exhibition race in September. My comin’ out of retirement, and the new car Doc’s workin’ on, are the lure—along with the track’s refurbishment. Your town’s hoping to recapture its status as one of the finest raceways in the world.”
Patiently, she stared at him, waiting for a real answer.
The mask slipped. Digging his hands in his trouser pockets, he said in low, gravelly tones, “I owe you. I owe this town.” His voice cracked on the admission.
“No, Mr. Quaid, you don’t.”
“Tell me that boy out there didn’t get into trouble because he lost his daddy. Tell me he didn’t backslide because I came back to town.”
“Ronny’s issues aren’t your fault.”
“Of course they are.”
Wide-eyed, Beth cocked her head. “Is this how you’ve felt for ten years?”
A muscle leapt in his throat. “More or less.”
She gave him a small smile. “Then maybe that’s why God sent you back here.”
“God had nothin’ to do with my comin’ back.”
“You’re here to pay a debt you don’t owe, Mr. Quaid. It’s not your fault Danny died.”
“My car played chicken with your husband’s for ten laps before his skidded off the track, causin’ it to flip twice and crash into a stone wall. Everybody said my blockin’ was too aggressive.” His mouth thinned. “There was even an investigation.”
The stark words resurrected a vivid image. For a minute, she relived the scene she’d watched from the stands: the high-pitched screech of the tires, the shattered glass, the thud of Danny’s car crashing into the concrete wall. Ten years had blurred the memory, but sometimes it still had the power to shake her. In a hoarse voice, she told him, “The NASCAR sanctioning body declared the collision an accident of indeterminate cause.” She frowned. “Auto racing is a dangerous sport. Everyone out there is at risk. It’s why I don’t want Ronny involved.”
The man’s face clouded with naked emotion. “Your son wants to race?”
“Yes. But he won’t. Not just for me, for his grandparents. Julia and Carl are horrified at the thought, just like they were about Danny. They have a fit when Ron even goes to the races held at the track now.”
“He should do something else. It’s a tough life.”
Beth remembered Danny’s high every time he climbed out of the car. His unshakable belief that he was going to be the best. His refusal to even listen when she expressed the concern every person who loves a driver feels when he gets into a race car. “I know. I don’t want that life for my son. He’s good in art; I wish he’d pursue that. I need to keep him on the straight and narrow.”
“A parent can only do so much.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong about that, Mr. Quaid. A parent can save a child’s life.”
“Or destroy it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothin’. Look, for the record, I don’t want any thanks for this. As I said, it’s the least I can do.” He looked away. “Besides it was a good excuse to spend some time with Doc after his heart problems.”
“I heard about that. How’s he doing?”
“Fine. Ornery as ever.”
She crossed to him; Tucker Quaid was unusually tall for a driver, and she had to look up at him. This close she could smell some woodsy scent on him. “Well, for the record, I don’t blame you for Danny’s death; if it makes a difference, I wish you wouldn’t blame yourself.” She reached out and squeezed his arm; he looked like she’d given him a gift. “Anyway, I appreciate your wanting to keep Ronny out of jail. I’ll see you at the Council meeting.”
“What?”
“You’ll have to go when the case is presented.”
“Can’t I just send a statement?”
“I’m not sure. They’ll want to talk to you, I’d guess.”
He seemed resigned to that. She wished she could help, but she had a hundred and sixty pounds of trouble waiting for her outside that door. Right now her son needed her.
And truthfully, she was shocked to realize she wanted to help this man. Though her own past, and having a minister as a brother, had helped her to forgive Tucker Quaid, she’d never envisioned feeling sorry for him.
> With that strange emotion in her heart, Beth turned to leave the police station. The door creaked as she opened it.
His words stopped her. “Mrs. Donovan?”
Circling around, she faced him. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“There’s somethin’ different about your relationship with the boy. I can tell you’re as mad as a hornet at him. But there’s no animosity there. It’s as if you understand him.”
She smiled serenely. “I do understand him. I know exactly where he’s coming from.”
“How?”
“Because, Mr. Quaid, by the time I was Ronny’s age, I’d done a lot worse things than steal some boots or slash up a car.”
*
AS IF PERFORMING a sacred rite, Beth poured the whole milk into the pan, turned on the gas and watched it flicker. When she was young, she and her best friends Annie and Margo used to make hot chocolate to soothe themselves if things got really bad. All three of them still kept up the ritual.
Willing her hands not to shake, she told herself that this, too, would be all right, that God would watch over them once again. He’d certainly carried them through scrapes before.
This is more than a scrape.
She swallowed hard. Her baby boy was in trouble. That little dark-haired infant with the brown eyes and dimples in his cheeks was in for it this time. Beth knew just how long it took to make the law throw up their hands.
“Hi.”
She glanced up. He filled the doorway, looking so much like his father in jeans, socked feet and one of his blasphemous Tshirts; Danny had loved sacrilegious Tshirts, too. Usually she found them entertaining. Not tonight. She cringed at its message. I feel much better now that I’ve lost all hope.
“Hi, buddy.”
His grin was the little-boy expression he’d donned when he had frogs in his pockets or a stray cat stashed away in his room. “That for me?”
“Of course.”
When the milk began to boil, she stood on tiptoes to get the chocolate—the expensive Swiss kind Ronny loved. She couldn’t reach the shelf. He must have put it there himself.
“I’ll get it.”
Bad Boy Heroes Boxed Set Page 62