Alex started giggling. “You big fraidy cat, Charlie!”
“It’s okay, Charlie,” Brooke repeated softly. “The storm is about over.”
Charlie opened his eyes and looked up at them. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he immediately shut them again.
“It’s all right,” she said assuredly. “It’s going away.”
Charlie reluctantly opened his eyes again, and they shifted quickly from side to side. He slowly sat up and lowered his hands from his ears. He smiled at Brooke and pointed at the light switch behind her.
“You got it, big guy,” she said.
“You’re a big fraidy cat!” Alex laughed, jumping up and down while holding out his arms for Charlie to take him.
“I think we were all afraid,” Brooke said soothingly as she turned to switch on more lights.
“No!” Alex yelled, his voice echoing off the church’s painted white brick walls.
Brooke spun around and found herself staring straight into Charlie’s barrel-like chest. His right arm extended firmly out to his side like a thick branch. At the end of that limb, two feet above her head, Alex dangled helplessly facedown as Charlie’s mammoth hand held him by the backside of his tiny Levi’s. She smiled and put her hands on her hips.
“Okay!” Alex shouted again, followed by a playful giggle. “Okay, Charlie! You’re not a fraidy cat!”
Charlie grinned and effortlessly flipped Alex upright to sit on his enormous shoulders. Alex balanced himself by hanging on to one handful of the giant man’s cropped blond hair and another handful of his left ear. Charlie’s oversized fingers wrapped carefully around the boy’s thigh to hold on to him. His other hand slowly lifted, opened, and then revealed a single Tic Tac, which Alex gratefully snatched up.
Brooke was giving Charlie a thumbs-up when Shirley Lindy came through the door. Shirley wore a plastic blue poncho and pulled out tissue to wipe away the small beads of water on her wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hello there, Alexander,” Shirley said, looking up at him.
“Hi, Mrs. Lindy,” he said. “We couldn’t find Charlie and he scared me!”
“Me too,” Brooke said. “Where is Pastor Jim?”
“I left him out front,” the older woman replied.
“What’s he doing out there in the rain?” Brooke asked.
“We have a little problem,” Shirley answered, holding up her hand and reeling in her right index finger, silently inviting them to come and see.
Brooke was the first outside as Shirley held the door for a ducking Charlie, who still had Alex saddled comfortably on his shoulders.
A gentle fog had rolled onto the property, and the storm had been reduced to a misty drizzle. Brooke’s breath clouded before her mouth and nose. But her eyes were on Pastor Jim.
“Oh no,” she sighed. “I saw this happen.”
Brooke slid her arms sympathetically around Shirley’s shoulders as Alex lowered his chin to the top of Charlie’s head.
Pastor Jim knelt in a shallow puddle with his head down and hands resting on the top half of the large wooden cross that lay on the ground before him.
Lightning had struck.
TWO
Twenty-seven-year-old Carla Miller sat quietly on a corner bar stool at The Pilot Inn. She was halfway into her first Bacardi and Coke and wished she could smoke a cigarette. She took a deep breath and ran her finger slowly down the side of her glass. She hadn’t had a smoke in over a year and knew the craving wouldn’t last long. It felt kind of good to be in control of something, at least.
Despite being one of the area’s most popular watering holes, the storm had made it a slow night at The Pilot. The sticky smells of stale beer that usually haunted the hundred-year-old bar and diner were minimized by both a light crowd and a splintered mop handle that propped the back door partially open, allowing rain-fresh air to waft through. Only one of the televisions was on, making it a little darker than usual, and the Guess Who’s “No Time Left for You” was playing a little too loudly from the corner jukebox. Carla wasn’t sure why she only liked listening to old songs. She guessed that they made her think of her father and the short amount of time she had with him.
She shook it off. This wasn’t going to be another one of those nights where the promises she had made to herself once again ended up in small pieces scattered all over the floor of the bar. The song ended to the sarcastic applause of an overweight man in his midfifties. A trucker? A construction worker? His fat, sausage-like fingers held a bottle of Bud Light as he slammed four quarters down on the edge of the pool table, securing his right to play the current game’s winner. He glanced back at Carla with eyes as gray and worn as his face, giving her the once-over. It didn’t bother Carla. Men had always liked her. Though the cigarettes and booze hadn’t been kind to her looks, she took a fair amount of consolation in her ability to turn heads.
She rested her chin on the palm of her hand and then looked up. In the long mirror that ran the length of the wall behind the bar, she could see her best friend—her only real friend—Brooke Thomas, walking through the saloon doors that separated the two halves of the bar and diner. It was good to see Brooke, but if she was venturing into the bar, it must have been a really rough day for her. They had known each other for over ten years now, and Brooke had spent the last two doing a pretty solid job of not meeting Carla anywhere that sold alcohol. Enable was the word Brooke liked to use, even though it bugged Carla.
“I hoped I’d find you here,” Brooke said, taking off her coat before sitting on the stool next to her. “Busy day at drama central. Went to the free clinic to have Alex checked, then we cleaned the church all afternoon. That was some kind of crazy storm, huh?”
“It was somethin’,” Carla responded, hugging Brooke while giving a peace sign to the bartender. “Kathy, let’s have two more rum and Cokes. Hold the rum on one.” She turned back to Brooke. “What’d you find out about Alex?”
“They want us to come back tomorrow so they can run some tests on him.”
“What kind of tests?”
“Blood tests and a couple of other things. Can you go with me?”
“Sure. What time?”
“Have to be there at seven forty-five.”
“I’ll pick you guys up at quarter after. What are they testing for?”
“Routine stuff,” Brooke said, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. “You think it’s something bad?”
Carla lowered her cheek to Brooke’s shoulder and put her arm around her for another quick hug. “I’m sure it’s not. Alex is gonna be just fine.”
“I know,” Brooke said, smiling in a way that seemed a little forced. Her light green eyes begged for more assurance. “But the cross outside St. Thomas won’t be fine. Lightning struck it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Wait until you see it.”
“Don’t worry about the cross,” Carla said. “It can be replaced.”
“With what?” Brooke said. “Our good looks? We don’t have the money to fix it.” Whatever happened to Brooke’s adopted family— the Lindys—was like it happened to Brooke too. Carla knew she owed them a great deal, but she hated that her friend took on their burdens as if they were her own. She studied Brooke, noticing dark shadows under her eyes, and reached out to rub her shoulder in comfort. But as she did, she caught the eye of a man over by the jukebox, staring hard at her. It wasn’t the kind of look she was used to, the soft perusal of a would-be lover. It was like his eyes drilled into her. Saw her. Knew her.
“Check out jukebox boy,” Carla said, lifting her hand off Brooke’s shoulder.
She nodded toward the man across the bar. He was a little too thin for her liking, had wavy brown hair, and appeared to be in his early thirties. Jeans. Navy peacoat. And boots that told her he was but another construction worker out to blow off some steam. He had a pool stick in one hand and what looked like an apple in the other. And he stared right at them, not politely looking away. Though Carla wouldn’t co
nsider him to be an eye-catcher, he had, for some reason, caught her eye.
“Why is he looking at us?” Brooke asked, turning back around. “And why would he bring an apple in here?”
“I’m gonna get him to come over here before we leave,” Carla said, flashing him the little smile that never failed.
“Just don’t leave with him,” Brooke said, giving Carla a warning look.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carla asked, poking at Brooke’s shoulder. “I’m gonna behave.”
“Looks like we’re gonna find out,” Brooke said. “Here he comes.”
Carla watched the man lean the pool stick against the wall and put the apple in the front left pocket of his coat. He didn’t break their gaze the whole time, and even though God knew she was burned out on construction types, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He sat a few seats down and resumed his stare via the mirror above the bar, making Carla even more curious. Something seemed different about this guy. His eyes were a soft green like Brooke’s, yet cast subtle hints of authority. Even though he hadn’t shaved in what had to be a couple of days, his grittiness came across as clean and pure. She had never seen anyone quite like him.
“He certainly has your attention,” Brooke whispered. “Don’t be so obvious.”
“He is beautiful,” Carla said.
Brooke laughed. “Beautiful? I’ve never heard you say that about a guy before. He doesn’t seem to be your type. Too skinny. Too . . . average.”
“Look at him,” Carla said. “He’s unreal.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
Carla broke their mirrored stare and slowly leaned forward, looking at him, past Brooke. “Hi there,” she said softly, in open invitation.
The man casually looked over at her from the side of his green eyes.
“ Strong, silent type,” Brooke whispered, tapping Carla’s leg.
Carla took a neat sip of her drink. She didn’t like being ignored. The least he could do was say something back. “Why are you staring at me?” she asked.
The man still didn’t move. His head was perfectly still.
“Why don’t you just take a picture?” Carla said, waving her hand back and forth in front of her.
“Are you talking to me?” he asked calmly.
“Oh my goodness!” Carla said. “You can talk!”
“You want me to take a picture of you?” the man asked, a hint of a smile bending the corner of his mouth.
“No,” Carla said, her voice changing from the curious to the more playful one that she had more confidence in. “I just wondered why you were staring at me.”
“I’m not staring at you,” he replied casually.
“Oh yes you are,” Carla said. She winked at him and hoped Brooke didn’t catch it.
“I’m not staring.” He gave a little shrug of his shoulders.
“Then what are you looking at?” Was he mental? Or was this part of his game?
The man lifted his hand off the bar and pointed his pinky finger right at what Carla thought was her head. “The TV.”
Behind Carla and Brooke, against the far wall, a magician was appearing on a flat-screen television, attempting to crawl through a solid piece of glass that served as the front window of a department store. The apple guy had been watching the television the whole time. Carla tried covering her face with her hand as she secretly wished she could steal the magician’s thunder by disappearing into thin air.
“I am such an idiot,” she mumbled, dropping her hand and ducking her head.
“Sorry,” Brooke said to the man, putting her arm around Carla. “Please excuse her. She’s a little tipsy.”
“No, I’m not,” Carla said. “I’m only on my second drink. Two more is my limit.”
“Relax,” Brooke whispered. “I just saved you.”
“That’s okay,” the man said as if he understood. “It happens.”
“Jukebox time,” Carla said, standing and looking down at the floor. It was the first excuse she could think of to get off her stool and out of the man’s sight. She took Brooke’s arm. “Get me and our new friend a shot of Jäger.” She was hoping that maybe the drink could, in some way, serve as an apology to the man.
“Okay,” Brooke said.
Carla stood a few feet behind the pool table and fed a pair of dollar bills to the jukebox. She laughed out loud. The only time I really want a guy to look at me, and he doesn’t. She ran her hand through her hair and peeked back toward the bar. Brooke was on her phone, and the guy with the apple was still staring—staring at the television—when she felt a hand settle rudely on her back.
“Need help picking out some real music, sugar britches?”
Carla turned around, and the fat trucker coughed out a syrupy laugh right in her face.
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Who taught you how to pick out music?”
So he didn’t like her taste in songs. She ignored him and scanned the jukebox for some more oldies. Maybe she could pick out another classic—something that would stick real well in Truckerman’s fat head.
“I have to leave!” Brooke shouted apologetically from the bar. “Shirley called!”
“You just got here!” Carla yelled back, giving the fat trucker a look that suggested pool wasn’t the only game he’d lose tonight. She hurried back toward the bar and Brooke yanked on her coat.
“It’s Alex,” Brooke said, her face alarmed. “I’ve gotta leave, like right now.”
“What’s wrong with Alex?” she whispered, hiding her face from the apple man.
“He got another bloody nose. You know how he likes me to be around when he gets them.”
“Poor baby. Isn’t that like three or four in the last two weeks?”
“More like seven or eight.”
She knew it was what had driven Brooke and Alex to the clinic that morning. “Maybe they’ll have answers for you at the hospital tomorrow.”
“We’ll see,” Brooke said.
“You gonna leave me alone with this guy?” Carla asked, tilting her head toward the man at the bar. It still looked like he was staring right at them.
“He seems all right,” Brooke whispered. “And by the way, he didn’t want the shot.”
“I’ll change his mind.”
“I gotta go. Be a good girl,” Brooke said, leaning her forehead toward Carla’s and lifting a delicate brow in silent warning.
“I will. See you in the morning,” Carla said.
The two hugged and Brooke left. Carla sat back down and quickly polished off one of the shots that was waiting there. Apple man was still glued to the TV when she turned to him.
“I think I owe you an apology,” she said. “I thought you were kind of looking at me and I guess I kind of wanted to talk to you.”
He didn’t respond again. He just kept staring.
Carla knocked on the bar and raised her voice over Foreigner’s “Dirty White Boy.” “Will you quit staring at that stupid television? I’m trying to apologize to you.”
“I wasn’t staring at the television,” he said calmly.
“What?” Carla asked.
He carefully crossed his arms. Carla found it difficult to take her eyes off of him while silently wondering what it was about him that she needed to know.
“I was staring at you,” he said.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he answered. “And I have a feeling you know why.”
Carla felt a tiny chill dance across the side of her neck and stop just under her chin. She ran her palm along where she’d felt it and tried to look back at the man. But she couldn’t.
“It’s not like you to be bashful, is it?” he asked.
She didn’t like the way he asked the question. If it was flirting, it wasn’t fun. She also knew he hadn’t moved, but now he somehow seemed so much closer. Too close.
“You have never been the shy type,” he said.
The way he said it was calm and quiet, but
some of that authority she sensed in those green eyes had underlined all seven words. She tried to look at him again and couldn’t, but now she knew why. She looked down and closed her eyes. He somehow knew her, knew about her past. She heard the legs of a bar stool pushing back from the bar. There was a pause, then evenly paced steps that were clearly made by his tan leather work boots.
He sidled up next to her.
“Tell me why I was staring at you,” he whispered.
The man had somehow found a way to take a lifetime of indiscretions and balance them neatly on the point of a needle. Each time she tried to look at him, it poked at her, exposing everything about her while injecting paralyzing doses of shame.
“It’s okay,” he said.
No, it isn’t. It’s another bad day, and I’m kidding myself about ever quitting drinking. A four-drink limit was a nice start, but it will never be enough to drown it all out. I’m going to get drunk tonight. And by tomorrow, I will have forgotten about how my conscience let me believe that this guy . . .
Carla opened her eyes. “Look. I don’t know who you are or what you want, but let’s go back to silent staring. Okay? Better yet, let’s just go our own ways.”
She edged off the stool and reached out to pick up the other shot of Jägermeister. But as she did so, she felt his warm hand gently take her wrist. That little chill raced across her neck again and moved into gooseflesh that crossed her shoulders and spread down her back.
“That’s enough, isn’t it?” he asked, guiding her hand and the drink back to the top of the bar. “You’re okay.”
As he gradually let go of her wrist, for the first time in her life, she felt like she really was okay. But that made no sense. She shivered, but oddly wasn’t cold. The first tear began to make its way down her cheek, and Carla closed her eyes. She couldn’t deny it; she was at complete peace. The bar had gone quiet, and she could feel him still standing next to her. The tear dripped off the side of her chin, and she heard it as it landed on the bar. More tears quickly followed. She couldn’t stop them. She didn’t want to. Everything was okay. No, perfect. Even though she was weeping.
“I would like to show you something,” he said.
The Reason Page 2