“Yeah, let’s take a seat in one of the booths; I’ll tell you about my background and you can tell me about yours.”
“Want something, honey?” Beth asked as Joe picked up his coffee cup.
“A coke. Thanks, Mom.”
Leaning over, she kissed his cheek. “Hang in there, buddy. Joe’s an old friend, you remember.”
Joe’s heart warmed. Though she said it mostly for the boy, he vowed she’d view him again as a friend who could be trusted. They settled in the most private booth they could find. After Gerty delivered Ron’s coke, Joe sipped his coffee and stared at Danny’s son. This close, he looked so much like his father at his age that for a moment Joe just sat back and took it in. God, he remembered Danny—sitting in this very diner.I’m gonna win the Winston Cup someday, Joey, I know it. And on his and Beth’s wedding day, Joe and Linc had teased him mercilessly.Go ahead and rag on me. Your time’s comin’. And when Ronny was born, Honest to God, guys, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.
“What you staring at?” Ronny asked.
Joe smiled. “I was just thinking about your father. The day you were born, he told me and your uncle Linc it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”
“No shit?”
Shaking his head, Joe said, “He was a wild kid, but he had a gentle streak, for you and your mother.”
Ronny’s eyes turned bleak. “Nobody talks about him anymore.”
“Do you want to talk about him?”
“I don’t care.”
Joe recognized the teenage bravado. “Well, if you do, we can spend a little time in each of our sessions discussing your dad. I’ve got stories galore about him.”
Ron looked down. “He’d be disappointed in me.” He drew a ring on the table with the dew from his glass.
“Yeah, he wouldn’t like the stuff you’ve been into. He’d ride your butt about it. But he’d understand, too.”
“Cause he was a member of the Outlaws?”
Joe nodded.
“You, too.”
“Yeah, we all were.”
“Answer something for me?”
“Sure, if I can.”
“Why does Mom pitch a fit about Loose and the other guys I hang out with when she was so wild?”
“Maybe it’s because we were so wild. We weren’t a good influence on each other and she knows what can happen.”
“You all turned out okay.”
“Maybe.”
“Margo said you cared about each other and those guys don’t give a shit about me.”
Joe seized the opening. “Well, we all care about you, too. Adult concern is something the Outlaws never had. And we’d like to keep you from repeating our mistakes.” He smiled sadly.
Ron looked at the partially open backpack on the table. Joe tracked his gaze. A sketch pad with blueprints was sticking out. “Tell me about the things you like to do.”
Swallowing hard, Ronny was silent.
“You said you were late because you were working with Mr. Johnson on some CAD drawings.” Joe shot a glance at the pad. “Are those them?”
A spark lit Ron’s eyes. “Yeah. I, um, like to draw stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
He shrugged. “Mostly cars.” He glanced over to the office door where Beth had retreated. “Mom doesn’t like it. Grandma and Grandpa have a fit about it.”
“Can I see your drawings?”
Again the shrug.
Joe waited. He knew kids, and he knew they succumbed to interest in what they liked to do better than anything. Finally Ron tugged out the pad.
For ten minutes, Joe leafed through his sketchbook and opened up the drawings. They were very good, very professional. He told Ron so.
“I guess,” the boy said. “Mr. Johnson thinks so.”
Joe made a mental note to talk to Mr. Johnson. “We never had courses like this in high school.”
“I hear you were a terror there.”
“I’m afraid I was.”
“Why?”
This he could answer honestly. “A lot of reasons. One was I was pretty smart and everybody saw me as the thug I pretended to be. Nobody saw past it, so I acted out.”
Straightening his shoulders, Ron’s look was very adult. “I like Annie and the kids. Why’d you come back?”
“Because I want to spend time with them.”
“She wasn’t as happy as a pig in shit to see you.”
Joe’s heart constricted. “She’s got reason.”
“What?”
“Let’s just say I wasn’t a very good husband or father.” He faced Ron squarely. “So you see, I need another chance, too.”
“That why you’re giving me one?”
“That, and I’ve read your file. I think you’re salvageable. You need help, though. We need to talk about what you’re feeling inside.”
Ron sighed heavily. “I don’t have much choice.”
“Well, you can opt for real prison instead of weekend jail and community service.”
Terror flickered across the kid’s face. Necessary, Joe knew, to drive home the point.
“I don’t want that.”
Sipping the last of his coffee, Joe took an appointment book out of his pocket. “Okay, let’s set up a schedule for our meetings.” He checked the clock. “And we have time to set some ground rules today.”
Again the terror. Joe recognized the fear that came from knowing you had to share your unprocessed thoughts. Because he’d been scared by it, too, he squeezed the arm of Danny’s son. “We’ll take it slow, Ron. It’ll work out. I promise.”
Chapter 6
*
“CAN I SEE you a minute?” Margo looked up from her desk to find Philip Hathaway looming in the doorway. Dressed in a slick Armani suit and perfectly matched shirt and tie, he was the epitome of corporate success. For some reason, Linc’s flannel shirt and worn jeans came to mind. Before she’d left Glen Oaks last weekend, she’d bought him three new pairs of denims and left them on the bed in his apartment.
“Yes, of course, Philip.”
He glanced at his watch, a Rolex that he’d bought with his last bonus. “Let’s go downstairs and have coffee.”
Margo hesitated. Though they’d often shared breaks at the Starbucks on the ground floor of their firm’s high-rise, she was uncomfortable going with him today. Things seemed fuzzy between them now, and she couldn’t bring them back into focus.
Running his hand through his perfectly styled hair and making it even more attractive, he gave her an ingenuous smile. “Look, there’s been a chill between us for almost two weeks. I feel bad, like I blew our friendship. I’d like to try to get back on track.” When she still hesitated, he said boyishly, “Please, Margo.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why not?” She was probably making too much of this anyway, and a good talk might clear the air. Grabbing her purse from her drawer, she stood and circled around her desk.
Philip whistled. “Wow. New dress?”
She’d bought the black sheath when she’d gotten back to New York from Glen Oaks. Linc’s psychological mind would have a field day with that. Paying the hefty price for a simple dress might just be the proof she needed that she was out of Glen Oaks, and the world that had taunted her in the name of religion, for good.
“Yeah.” She adjusted the black and white silk scarf she’d bought to go with it. “I needed perking up.”
“Well, baby, in that outfit you’ll perk up any man you see.”
She halted at the sexual innuendo.
“What?” he asked with choir boy innocence.
“Do you think that’s an appropriate remark, Philip?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sakes, I initiated the company’s sexual harassment policy, reviewed it, made my own changes and gave the final okay. We really need to talk if you take offense at that. It’s nothing I haven’t said before Boston.”
Was that true? Because he could be right, because Linc could just have spooked her about
Philip with his suspicions and dire warnings, she shook her head and accompanied Philip downstairs. They made chitchat in the elevator about work, and found a table in a corner of the crowded coffee shop. Once she was seated, he ordered cafe au laic for them both from the counter without even asking if it was what she wanted. She wondered how long that kind of thing had been going on. It seemed intimate, and possessive. Damn, had she really given off mixed signals?
When he’d gotten their coffee and sat across from her, he stared over the rim of his cup with solemn blue eyes. “I’m sorry about that night in Boston. I can tell how upset you still are about it, and I don’t quite know what to do to make things right between us.”
“I’m not upset, Philip. Just disappointed.”
Hot emotion flared in his eyes. “I’m human, Margo. And I misread the signals.”
Guiltily she looked down at her coffee. She took a taste of the sweet confection. “If I’ve given them out, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“Just as I didn’t mean to scare you off.” Reaching across the table he took her hand in his. His was big and warm from the mug. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I care about you, as a business associate and as a friend.”
She frowned at their clasped hands. Again she realized his touching her like this was nothing unusual. Wondering how gullible she’d been, she squeezed his fingers, extricated her hand and met his gaze. “I care about you, too. I probably overreacted.”
“Good.” He closed his eyes briefly then, and drew in a deep breath. “At least that’s settled.”
“What is it, Philip?”
“There’s something you don’t know. Something that might relate to what happened.”
Concerned, she set down her cup and braced her arms on the table. “Tell me.”
“I’m afraid to, now.”
“You can trust me.”
His blond brows arched. “Of course I can. And you can trust me.” His expression and tone were guileless, and she was beginning to feel like a fool for her behavior these past few days.
“I know,” she told him honestly. “I’ve overreacted. Let’s put it behind us. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Swallowing hard, he looked down at his hands and twisted his wedding band around nervously. “Things aren’t good with Sally and me.”
Margo pictured Sally Hathaway. She’d last seen the woman at the firm’s Christmas party. Tall and statuesque, Sally had been a goddess in a shimmery gold dress and piles of blond hair. Philip’s classic good looks had complimented her beautifully. “Since when?”
“For about six months. This time.”
“This time?”
“We’ve had problems before.”
“Over what?”
“I work too much. I don’t pay enough attention to her. I travel a lot.”
Margo hadn’t a clue. In the years she’d know the Hathaways, they’d always appeared the ideal couple. “I’m sorry, Philip.”
His gaze was profoundly intense. “You and I are a lot alike, Margo. You understand my work, you share my dedication to it. I find that very attractive. I’m not sorry for it. But I am sorry if I offended you that night.”
He was hurting, she could tell. And he’d been so good to her. Really, she was being unsophisticated about all this. Reaching over, this time she covered his hand with hers. “We’ve forgotten that, remember? Now, let’s talk about you and Sally.”
He smiled warmly at her and squeezed her hand. If he held on a little too long, Margo told herself, it was because he was upset about his marital problems.
Like hell , Linc would say.
As Philip talked about his wife, Margo thought about Linc’s hands, and how calloused they were from the work he did around the church. And how they felt in her hair, on her shoulder, kneading her back.
Suddenly, a bigger more graphic image assaulted her.
She’d been fifteen, and he’d gone to rub her back one day in his old battered car. She’d flinched and pulled away.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” She tried to keep stuff from him because he had a terrible temper in those days and she hated to see it spark.
His dark eyes narrowed on her. “Turn around.”
“Linc, please.”
“I wanna see.”
She’d argued, but eventually he had her facing away and lifted her sweater. “Fucking son of a bitch,” he’d said when he’d seen the strap marks. They were particularly bad that time.
“Why?” he asked tightly.
“I wouldn’t pray before dinner.”
“Margo, just do it when they ask you and avoid this.”
“No.”
He’d leaned over and kissed a spot—there weren’t many—where there was no welt. “I’m so sorry. We’ll leave this crummy town. As soon as you graduate.
“Margo, are you all right?”
“Hmm?”
“You look like you’re somewhere else.”
I was . Back in Glen Oaks.
Where Linc lived. Where she could never, ever live again.
*
HENRY PORTMAN WAS a big, balding man who walked with a pronounced limp and always smelled a little like mothballs. A Vietnam vet, he was disabled in the war and lived on a pension from the government. Linc had recognized the emptiness of the older man’s life as soon as he took over the pastorship at Community Christian Church. When Henry had asked, in one of his rare verbal episodes, if he could volunteer as the custodian of the church—a position which they couldn’t afford to hire for pay—Linc was unable to turn him down. Even if it did mean cleaning up after Henry, or chasing around in his wake to repair damage.
Today, the poor man’s latest target had been the stove in the fellowship hall kitchen. Henry had tried to clean it with outdoor bug spray, mistaking the can for oven cleaner. As Linc stuck his head in the oven, he had to smile, though the sickeningly sweet smell assaulted him. “No internal damage, Henry. I’ll just scrub it with some bleach and maybe the smell will go away.”
Again Linc chuckled as he pictured Connie Smith’s horror when the Ladies Aid turned on the oven last night and the unmistakable smell of Zap ’em Bug Spray permeated the fellowship hall. She’d come screaming to Linc. They were still airing out the place.
Linc pulled himself from the oven and stood. Henry shrugged and gave him an I’m sorry look.
“Why don’t you go set up the chairs for the women’s group in the first Sunday School room? Six of them. And find the blackboard for me to use. I’ll have this done in no time.”
A squeeze on his shoulder made Linc’s heart lurch. So many lonely people in this world who needed to be needed. Henry left, and Linc began the messy task of cleaning out the oven. Like everything else around here, the stove was a relic. The kitchen was old, the fellowship hall was old and the church proper was old. The whole place would have been sold off long ago if Jeremiah Jordan hadn’t died and left in his will money earmarked to purchase the entire property, now held in trust for the congregation. If they’d had a mortgage to pay, the forty-family church would never have survived. Jeremiah’s bequest was the miracle God had planned for this tiny place.
While he scrubbed and rinsed, and scraped his knuckles on the wall of the oven, Linc’s mind drifted to Margo. It had been paradise having her home last weekend. She’d slept like a baby in his arms the night of the Council meeting, then come to him after spending the evenings with Beth or Annie. They’d shared pizza and beer late at night and long, involved discussions into the quiet hours of the morning. He ran on empty for days after she left, but the pure pleasure of her company had been worth it. She wouldn’t attend church on Sunday, of course, but she spent the whole afternoon with him before he dropped her off at the train station. Her hug had been warmer and longer than usual, and he could still summon the feeling of her strong arms around him and the sexy scent of her expensive perfume.
Maybe it was time for another talk with God.
I’m missing her something
bad.
I know. It’s all part of the plan, son.
What, to torture your most avid servant?
You do look a little like a servant there.
Poor Henry.
Henry’s fine. Because of you.
It took him an hour to clean the oven, but talking with God made it go fast. When he was done, he glanced at the clock and realized he had just enough time to shower and change. Hurrying out of the kitchen, on impulse, he checked the meeting room for his group. Eight chairs were out. But they were in rows. He’d told Henry a million times he wanted them in a circle, to facilitate discussion. If Linc left the rows, the women would sit down before he got back and the discussion among them was already like pulling teeth. There was also a huge room divider set up in front. On it was a note in Henry’s scrawl, “No blackboard. Use this.”
By the time Linc rearranged the chairs and found the blackboard buried in a storage closet, he only had time to wash his hands and face and tuck in his shirt in the small men’s lay. He did, however, manage a short prayer that he’d be patient and insightful for these women who trusted him. At ten o’clock, five out of six of the women had arrived for their third meeting.
“Pardon my appearance, ladies, but the stove took precedence over the shower today.” He gave them a self-effacing grin.
They smiled back and Linc was warmed by their affection. He’d never had motherly approval in his life, and wondered if he was searching for it here. “Shall we start with a prayer?”
Once seated, they bowed their heads and Linc gave a short prayer. Then he said, “This is our third meeting. Today we’re going to brainstorm some topics for future discussion and set an agenda of sorts. Anyone want to write?”
Barb Mandarin, a slim woman in her mid-forties with lively green eyes, turned to Anita Camp. The town’s hairdresser sported flamboyant silky leggings and a long hot pink shirt. It clashed vividly with her red hair. “Anita, you do it,” Barb said. “You’re good in front of people.” The implication was that none of the others were. Except for Anita, the self-esteem quotient in this room hovered near zero.
“Sure thing.” Anita stood and sashayed over to the board. “All set, kemosabe,” she said to Linc.
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