Falling for You

by Becky Wade

  The photographer had captured Corbin, who’d been wearing a shirt Willow had purchased for him, looking right at the camera with concern. A pretty, young, black-haired woman in a tiny dress had slung her arm around his neck. She was laughing up at him, a martini glass dangling from her manicured hand.

  Willow’s stomach had dropped when she’d seen that picture. Envy and betrayal had carved into her.

  “A few of the guys from the team asked me to go out with them that night,” Corbin said.

  “And you said yes because you were still reeling,” Willow supplied. She remembered the version of events he’d given her over the phone the day the photograph had been published. “You made a mistake and had a few too many.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t even remember the name of the woman who was hanging on you in the picture.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “And you didn’t do anything with her.”

  “No.”

  “And yet you were leaving the club with her.”

  “I wasn’t leaving the club with her. It was hot and loud inside. I was stepping outside to get some fresh air when she tossed her arm around me.”

  “See, I still have no idea if that’s truly what happened or not.”

  “That’s exactly what happened.”

  “Even if that’s the case, your choices are still suspect. You decided to go out clubbing, to get drunk, and to let a woman hang on you.”

  “You’re right.”

  “At that stage, it didn’t even matter what your intentions were toward that woman because I couldn’t believe anything you said.” The photograph sent so many more fractures through their relationship that there’d been nothing left to build on.

  As soon as she saw that photo, she called him and told him they were through. She’d been very quick to fall in love with him, and he’d been very quick to let her down the minute they’d faced their first trial.

  When a pregnancy test informed her that she wasn’t pregnant, the rock of her romance with Corbin had already become dust. It was too late to salvage it. Corbin, though, had continued to try. He’d believed they could fix it. He’d wanted to do whatever it took to fix it. She’d remained furiously immovable in her resolve, even going so far as to accept Derek Oliver’s invitation to his movie premiere.

  Derek was gorgeous, well-behaved, and best of all, had no power whatsoever over her emotions. After the storm Corbin had put her through, it had been blissful to feel nothing more than indifference for Derek.

  She’d let Corbin find out about Derek the way she’d found out about his nightclub photo—through others. When Corbin had reached her by phone the morning after the premiere, she’d told him that she regretted their entire relationship. Meeting him, sleeping with him, and every moment in between. She’d known her words had hurt him, and she’d been glad they had.

  Then she’d lain on her bed and sobbed.

  It had been their final conversation.

  “Why couldn’t you forgive me?” Corbin asked.

  Because your actions were unforgivable. She held that response back because . . . was that really true? Had his actions been unforgivable?

  “Be honest,” he said, serving her own words from earlier back to her. “You don’t have anything to lose or gain by telling me the truth at this point.”

  She reached back through time to recall where her head had been the day she’d broken up with him. “I knew it was wrong to have sex with you.” She didn’t like to think—and definitely didn’t like to speak aloud—about the physical side of their romance. But he’d asked her to be honest. And this was her truth. “For months, I’d known we couldn’t continue like we had been without God stepping in to separate us. When things started to unravel between us, it seemed to me that judgment had finally come. And it was nothing less than I—than we deserved.”

  He stared at her gravely.

  “I realize that’s probably hard for you to understand,” she said, “because you’re not a Christian.”

  “I am, actually.”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’m a Christian.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Since February.”

  She blinked at him.

  “It’s true. If they issued ID cards to Christians, I’d show you my ID card.”

  Corbin had aced secular living. He’d been born with more than his share of athletic ability, determination, charm, and good looks. He’d enjoyed every worldly benefit that had come to him because of those qualities. He . . . Corbin . . . was a Christian?

  “I’m new at it,” he said. “I’m a long way from figuring it out.”

  Surprise whitewashed her vocabulary.

  “I screwed up four years ago,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I want you to know that I regret it and that I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry that I’ve had to suffer because I’ve had a hard time getting over you?” she asked, reminding him of what he’d said to her in the inn’s kitchen the day she’d met Charlotte.

  He gave her a small, wickedly powerful smile.

  Heat circled down her spine in response, leaving sparks.

  “No,” he said. “This time I’m just sorry. I’m trying to apologize. You probably can’t tell because I don’t do it often so I’m not very good at it.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you admit to being not very good at anything.”

  “That’s because I’m good at almost everything.” And just like that, the Corbin she was accustomed to returned.

  Footsteps approached. Seconds later, Joe entered the kitchen. His progress faltered when he realized that he’d walked in on the two of them alone together.

  “Dad, can you grab that tray there?” Corbin nodded to a tray the caterer had no doubt left behind. It was stocked with dessert plates, napkins, forks. “We’re about to serve dessert.” Corbin lifted the cake. Near the door, he stopped and looked back at her. “Coming?”

  “Yes. I’ll grab a knife and a spoon for the strawberries.”

  “Knives are in the block, spoons in the drawer next to the sink.” As soon as Corbin left, the atmosphere in the room turned chilly. Joe eyed her with suspicion while she located the utensils.

  “Are you hoping to start something back up with Corbin?” he asked.

  She froze. No parent had ever inquired about her intentions toward their son. Not even when she’d been a teenager.

  Beneath his ruddy complexion, Joe’s pallor was off. Too pale. He’d set his jaw tightly, as if he were in pain.

  She’d watched Joe with her sisters tonight. He seemed to like and accept them both, but he hadn’t taken a liking to her at all. Even so, she couldn’t help feeling a wave of tenderness toward him. He wore a long-sleeved polo shirt that boasted the logo of the Dallas Mustangs. Grandpa jeans. Sturdy tennis shoes with snowy white laces. His Timex watch.

  “I don’t think a relationship between you two is a good idea,” Joe said. “Do you?”

  She cleared her throat. “No.”

  “You and Corbin had your chance. Several years ago.”

  “That’s true. We did.” She set the knife on the tray Corbin had asked his dad to carry. “I haven’t won you over yet, have I?”

  “I’m sure you’re a fine person.”

  “I actually am.”

  “If that’s true, you’ll leave Corbin be. He doesn’t need any headaches over women right now.”

  She stuck the serving spoon into the strawberries. “You may need to have this conversation with your son.”

  “I already have,” he said.

  Facebook message from Willow to Vickie Goff:

  Willow

  Thanks for accepting my friend request! I’m reaching out to you because I’ve befriended a twelve-year-old girl named Charlotte Dixon. Charlotte has enlisted me to help her find out what happened to her great-aunt Josephine Blake, who went missing in 1977.

  Five months before her disappearance, Josephine volunteered on Senator Foster Holt’s
first election campaign. It’s possible that your experience with Senator Holt may give us a more complete picture of Josephine.

  I’d love to take you out for coffee one day soon if you’re willing to talk with me. I realize this is a lot to ask. I’m grateful for your consideration. Sincerely, Willow

  Facebook message from Vickie to Willow:

  Vickie

  It’s a pleasure to “meet” you through Facebook, Willow. My mom is a huge fan of yours. Because you were born and raised in nearby Merryweather, she’s followed you and your career closely.

  I very rarely talk to anyone about Foster Holt. But for you and for Charlotte’s sake, I’ll make an exception. I can meet you at 11:15 on Wednesday morning at Common Grounds on the campus of University of Washington–Bothell.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  Facebook was a faux detective’s friend.

  Willow had easily located Vickie Goff’s Facebook profile because Vickie had remained in northwest Washington and because she’d never married and thus never changed her last name. From Facebook, Willow had learned that Vickie had two twenty-something daughters from a past relationship, a current boyfriend named Hank, and a fondness for dachshunds. Also thanks to Facebook, Willow recognized the older woman the moment Vickie entered the Common Grounds coffee shop on Wednesday morning.

  Willow stood and raised a hand to catch Vickie’s eye. Vickie nodded and made her way through the collection of students and staff members.

  At the age of fifty-eight, Vickie’s once-dark hair was now a golden brown highlighted with honey-colored strands. Her short hairstyle flattered her attractive features. She’d knotted a scarf patterned with shades of maroon and turquoise over a maroon blouse and slim, tailored pants.

  Willow introduced herself, and they shook hands.

  Vickie gave off a strong first impression of professionalism. Willow had learned—thank you again, Facebook—that Vickie was a professor of Global Studies here at UW–Bothell.

  “What can I get you to drink?” Willow asked.

  Vickie waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing. I’ve had my quota of coffee for the day.” They settled into armchairs situated in a secluded corner facing the interior of the shop.

  “I’m sorry that the circumstances of our meeting revolve around Foster Holt,” Willow said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “I read that you met the senator when you took a job working for his family.”

  “Yes.” Vickie tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “I was putting myself through grad school at the time working as a waitress and for a baby-sitting agency. For about a year and a half the agency booked me to work for the Holts whenever Foster and Marjorie wanted an extra hand with their kids, which was relatively often. Between Marjorie’s social schedule and Foster’s work schedule, their calendar was elaborate.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I was in my midtwenties and Foster was in his late forties when I worked for them. He was handsome. Confident. Powerful.” Vickie wrinkled her brow. “There was always a great deal of physical attraction between Foster and me. Nothing came of it until I asked if I could interview him for a school assignment. He came by my apartment. We were alone together. And . . . that was the beginning of our affair.”

  Senator Holt had a reputation for being smart, mannerly, magnetic, and effective. He’d given hundreds of thousands of dollars to charities. Many credited the economic growth that Seattle and its surrounding cities had enjoyed to him. He, his wife, and his kids were widely regarded as upstanding.

  If Vickie was to be believed, Foster wasn’t as upstanding as he appeared. Of course, Willow knew she wasn’t as upstanding as she appeared, either.

  People often weren’t what they seemed.

  “Did you know that one of the senator’s female staffers had come forward a few years prior to say that she’d had an affair with him?”

  “Yes. When I asked him about her, he said that she made the whole thing up.”

  Willow took a sip of her cappuccino, then wrapped her hands around the cup. “How long did your affair with Senator Holt last?”

  “Four months. When my roommate was gone, Foster and I met at my apartment. If my roommate was at home, we met at hotels. Either Don or I would check in under our names. We never used Foster’s name.”

  “Don?”

  “Foster’s employee. He was like a henchman, bodyguard, and confidant all rolled into one. Basically, Don did whatever Foster needed doing because Don didn’t mind getting his hands dirty.”

  “And Don knew about your affair?”

  “Don knew everything. In fact, he was the one who was there at the end.”

  “The end?”

  “I fancied myself in love with Foster.” She sighed. “I was smart enough not to expect him to leave his wife and kids for me. But I stupidly imagined we were starting out on a long-term affair. I was stunned and devastated when he ended things with me.”

  “Did he give a reason?”

  “He fed me some lines about wanting to make a fresh start with his wife and how the guilt had been eating him up inside. It was all lies. He’d simply grown tired of me.” She squinted, as if focusing on something in the far distance. “When Foster wouldn’t return my calls or my letters, I got angry. I called a reporter at the paper and told him about the affair. I imagined that Foster would be forced to resign or, at the very least, that he wouldn’t be reelected.”

  Willow waited.

  “None of that happened,” Vickie said, meeting Willow’s eyes. “Instead, I was the one who was very nearly derailed.”

  “In what way?”

  “People immediately turned on me. I lost friends and received hate mail. My family was crushed.” She frowned. “About a week after my accusations went public, Foster called me. He apologized and said that he’d been depressed since our breakup and that he was trying to figure out a way for the two of us to continue our relationship. He asked me to meet him at his vacation home in Laguna Beach, California, for a long weekend. I said that I would.” Vickie bent to pull a bottled water from her bag, then took a few pensive sips.

  Willow wished Corbin were here. He would have been a liability in this particular circumstance, yet it really was more satisfying to investigate Josephine’s disappearance with him than without him. He saw things differently than she did, which was valuable. And he was arguably a better detective than she was, seeing as how he’d been the one to discover Stan Markum.

  Lately, a renegade portion of her wanted to spend every free second thinking about Corbin. Wanted to see him. Wanted to ponder, for the thousandth time, the things he’d said to her in his kitchen on Monday night. “I wanted you to be mine, Willow. Just mine. . . . I’m a Christian now. . . . I screwed up four years ago. . . . I’m sorry.”

  Even here, on a college campus far from Merryweather, she could feel a physical pull toward him.

  Insufferable!

  She needed to be careful. She couldn’t let the last of her anger toward him crumble in her hands like freeze-dried ice cream.

  “It seems deluded to me now,” Vickie continued, “but when Foster invited me to his beach house, I actually thought we were going to get back together. As if he ever could’ve gotten back together with a woman who’d claimed that she’d had an affair with him.”

  “You went to California?”

  “Yes. A plane ticket showed up in my mailbox just like Foster said it would. I flew down and waited several hours for him. But it wasn’t Foster who arrived. It was Don. He told me that Foster had wanted to come and that he cared about me a great deal, but he’d decided at the last minute not to make the trip because he realized that our relationship had to end.” She arched a brow. The coffee shop’s espresso machine hissed.

  “Don told me that Foster wanted me to use the beach house for the weekend,” Vickie said, “to rest and relax and hopefully make my peace with the way things had turned out. Which seemed decent enough on the surface. But w
hen I tried to leave the beach house to go for a walk alone, Don locked the door behind us and followed me. He didn’t leave my side for the whole weekend.”

  Her fingertips tapped irritably against the chair’s upholstery. “Don told me he was keeping an eye on me for my own protection, but it was for Foster’s protection. Trapping me at that beach house was their way of isolating me, of making sure I didn’t say anything to anyone else. They wanted to give me time to cool off and come around to their way of thinking.”

  Good gracious. “Did Don ever threaten you?”

  “No, he was much too careful for that. He did talk at length about why remaining silent would be better for me and my career and my future. He didn’t threaten me, though. And he never tried to buy my silence, either.”

  “Still, it sounds like you were a prisoner of sorts at the beach house.”

  “Exactly. And my jailer was terrifying. Don was tall and thin with cold, dark eyes. If I had to do it over again, I wouldn’t have shut up and scuttled away. But back then? I considered myself sophisticated, but I was young and immature and thoroughly intimidated. Since that beach trip, every time a reporter has contacted me, I’ve refused to comment.”

  Willow regarded Vickie thoughtfully.

  “You’re wondering whether Josephine may have had an affair with Foster,” Vickie said.

  “Yes. She resembles you a little.”

  “That’s not enough to connect her to Foster.”

  “I know. Unfortunately, we don’t have any evidence, so we’re having to speculate. If Josephine did have an affair with Foster, then I’m wondering whether he might have sent her off to his beach house like he did with you.”

  “It’s a theory.”

  “Do you happen to know if he owned the beach house in 1977?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Do you think that harm would’ve come to you if you’d refused to stay silent about the affair?”

  “I have no idea. His staffer is the only other woman who’s admitted to the press that she had an affair with Foster. She never claimed that he threatened her in any way.”

  “It’s possible that Josephine, and maybe other women, too, were silenced before they had a chance to speak out.”