Somewhere Along the Way

by Jodi Thomas

He grabbed a towel, drying off as he walked down the hallway to the one windowless room in the house . . . his bedroom. By the time he’d pulled on a pair of sweats, he’d convinced himself that he hadn’t really stepped over the line. One kiss probably meant nothing to her. She still didn’t know him. Hell, she thought his name was Smith.

  Gabe smiled. Half the time he didn’t know what his name was. He’d been Leary until he ran away. In those months before he was eighteen, he’d told everyone his name was Smith just in case the law tried to make him go back home. The army made him step back into Gabe Leary’s shoes when he enlisted, but he’d traded last names with another Gabriel in basic training. He’d gone by Wiseman for almost ten years, but once he came back home to recover, the Gabe Leary shoes were waiting for him. He used Smith on all correspondence related to his work. He’d even rented the office to keep the two separate.

  Moving to the main room of his home, he flipped on the light and sat down at one of the three drafting tables. He pulled a piece of drafting paper down and drew an outline of Elizabeth’s face, chin up, big bright eyes, pouty mouth, and light yellow hair that curled around her face like sunshine.

  All in all, he knew it would be her mouth that would probably haunt his dreams tonight.

  Chapter 8

  FRIDAY

  JANUARY 25, 2008

  WINTER’S INN BED-AND-BREAKFAST

  MARTHA Q PATTERSON HAD BEEN CONSIDERED THE TOWN slut for so long she’d learned to embrace the title. When she was in her teens she’d take any dare. In her twenties and thirties, folks claimed she married half the eligible men in town and slept with the other half.

  Which wasn’t true, Martha liked to remind everyone. Two of her husbands were from Bailee and one from Oklahoma City. But in the twenty years she considered her “marrying phase,” she did marry seven times, if she counted Bobby Earl Patterson twice, him being both her second and seventh.

  The part about sleeping with other men was a flat-out lie. Martha had her morals. She believed in marrying first. In her forties Bobby Earl got cancer, and she stayed with him for ten years as lover, friend, and finally nurse. She didn’t consider him the great love of her life, but he considered her his, and sometimes that’s enough to stay with a man.

  He died when she was fifty-one, leaving her the business she’d kept running all through his illness and an old house on North Street that his grandparents had built. Martha sold the tire and lube business and remodeled the old house into a bed-and-breakfast that she called Winter’s Inn because Bobby Earl’s favorite time of year was winter.

  She averaged three or four paying guests a month, but that seemed to be enough to keep the lights on.

  Martha Q was now fifty-three—the prime of her life, she decided—and she had no mission. No real job. No cause. It had been her experience in life that when she had nothing to do, trouble usually walked in to keep her busy. She didn’t need to go to work. Another man was the last thing she was looking for. She’d given up on the cause of losing weight ten times, and children were much admired as long as they belonged to someone else. Though she’d accepted a wide variety of sperm donations, none had provided her with a child, which she told everyone was to her liking.

  In the drab cold of a January morning, Martha sat among her antiques and tried to think of one reason to get dressed. She didn’t have a booking at the B&B until next month, and the Red Hats, who had lunch in her parlor, weren’t scheduled today.

  She downed the last of her cold coffee and looked through the paper, then mumbled to herself.

  Her big tabby cat lifted his head and stared at her.

  “I’m not talking to you, fat cat.” Martha wasn’t really that crazy about cats, but someone had told her every bed-and-breakfast should have one. After living with the tabby, Mr. Dolittle, for two months, she decided the cat was the reincarnation of her third husband. He ate at all hours and peed on the bathroom rug. He also had the habit of sleeping with his eyes partly open, which gave her the creeps.

  She flipped the page and saw a small notice about Elizabeth Matheson opening a law office. Martha smiled, deciding she’d pay a visit. It had been her experience in life that it never hurts to know a lawyer. Maybe she’d even invite Elizabeth to lunch. She’d never been one to seek out women as friends, but a woman lawyer would be different.

  Martha stood. “Well, Mr. Dolittle,” she said to the cat. “I’d better get out the trowel and smear on some makeup. I’ve got a visit to pay.”

  The fat cat looked like he couldn’t care less. He turned his head to the bird feeder just beyond the window that Martha had put there just to torture him and she had a feeling they both knew it.

  Chapter 9

  HARMONY FIRE DEPARTMENT

  HANK CAME TO TOWN FRIDAY MORNING, SOMETHING HE rarely did. He liked to work at the ranch and considered his workweek from Friday through Monday. Then, Tuesday or Thursday, he’d put in his time at the fire station and Wednesday he spent the day at home keeping the books. Hank almost never took a day off, and when he was forced into it by Thanksgiving or Christmas, he usually spent his time wandering about the house wishing he were outside taking care of business.

  But this rainy Friday in January, he had to get away from the ranch. He couldn’t point to what was bothering him. Maybe the fact that Alex had canceled their usual Thursday night dinner, claiming she had too much paperwork to catch up on. Maybe the realization that his sister Liz hadn’t come home for almost a month, and she’d missed lunch with him at the diner. Maybe his mood was brought on by watching Mrs. Biggs go to the cemetery every day, rain or shine. She was living among the dead as if nothing on the other side of the cemetery fence interested her.

  He felt lousy, not physically, but emotionally. He liked order. Everything should make sense. Nothing had changed in his world, but it was shifting and he didn’t like it or know how to stop it.

  At nine o’clock, he ran through the rain and into the county offices. Alex was walking from the break room with probably her third cup of coffee when he caught up with her.

  “What brings you in, stranger?” She smiled, that warm, knowing smile a woman gives a man when she thinks she knows him completely.

  He didn’t answer. He just walked into her office, waited for her to follow, closed the door, and tossed his wet hat on the nearest chair. Then he carefully took her cup from her, pushed her against the wall, and kissed her as if he were starving for the taste of only her.

  When he let her go, he swore and said, “Marry me, damn it. I don’t like waking up without you.”

  She brushed rain from her clothes. “Good morning to you too.”

  “You’re not answering me. Alexandra, I’ve loved you for longer than I can remember. We’ve been engaged two years now and we’re no closer to marriage. I don’t like sneaking over to your place in the middle of the night. I want to go to bed every night with you and wake up with you every morning.”

  Alex walked around her desk, putting some space between them. “You make it sound so exciting. Tell me one thing, Hank, if we married, where would we live? In my two-room cabin, or at your place with your mother, aunts, and sister?”

  “We could get a place in town. We’re both here as many hours as we’re anywhere.”

  She shook her head. “Neither of us would survive in town.”

  “We could live at your cabin.” He grinned. “It borders my land. I could walk to work.”

  “It’s too small. Can’t we just be happy the way we are?”

  Hank gave in, like he always did. She loved him, and that should be enough for now. All the women in his house needed him, depended on him. His mother and sister Claire were so into their art they’d forget to pay the electric bill, and his two old aunts only thought of gardening in the summer and quilting in winter. They worried as much about characters on soap operas as they did people. His six-year-old niece was the only one in the house with any brains. By the time she turned ten she’d be running the place.

  He picke
d up his hat and took a step toward the door. “If I have to, Alex, I’ll build us a house on the line between your land and mine. I’m going to grow old with you by my side.”

  “That sounds like a plan. I’ll see you tonight.” She smiled. “I’ll have a hot supper ready.”

  He nodded. “Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup?” One of the few things she could cook, but when they’d decided always to stay in on Friday nights, the menu hadn’t been one of the considerations.

  “I’ll have the fire going.”

  He winked at her double meaning and opened the door. “You got time to have lunch with Liz and me?”

  “No, not today, I’ve got too many problems to solve. We’ve already had two break-ins reported this morning. Strange, both did damage, shattering glass and kicking in doors to get in, but nothing seems to be missing.”

  “Have any suspects?” he said, thinking about how much he liked just watching her move.

  “Maybe a gang of boys I’ve been watching. No proof, just a feeling. I caught them shooting at squirrels a few weeks ago. Only thing they seem to be able to hit were windowpanes.” Alex crossed to the window and looked out. “Odd, the break-ins don’t make sense. Why would anyone risk getting arrested for nothing?”

  “The victims have anything in common?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “Get this, they were both named Smith.”

  He stepped closer. “How many Smiths we have in town?”

  “I already checked. Eight families with homes, two singles in apartments, and three with businesses.”

  The dispatcher yelled. Someone wanted to speak to the sheriff.

  “I got to get to work.” Her eyes said far more than her words.

  “Tonight,” he whispered, and turned away. If he looked at her much longer, they both would have forgotten all about work.

  Her place was so small, half the time when they tried to make breakfast in her closet of a kitchen they ended up making love instead. Loving her was as easy as breathing, but getting her to marry him seemed more like trying to plow with a spoon.

  Hank climbed into his truck and decided to drive by the cemetery. Surely, Mrs. Biggs wouldn’t be out there in weather like this. For once the wind wasn’t blowing, but icy rain fell straight down, making the town look like a melting painting of small-town America.

  A few minutes later he was surprised to find that Tyler Wright had put up one of the funeral tents over her bench, and Mrs. Biggs was there, waiting as she had been all week.

  He climbed out and ran to the bench. “Mind if I sit a spell with you?”

  “No,” she said, but her smile was as sad as always.

  He knew she wouldn’t talk much. Wouldn’t answer any personal questions. She wanted to just be there in silence, her slender form as unbending as the iron fences surrounding some of the graves.

  Sitting down next to her, he watched the rain dripping off the tent, curtaining them from the world. He had a hundred things he needed to do, but right now nothing seemed more important than being here on this bench. He held no illusion that he was keeping her company. Mrs. Biggs would still be very much alone even if half the town turned out to huddle under the Wright Funeral Home tent.

  Tyler came by with Stella McNabb, who acted as one of the hosts at the funeral home on family viewing nights. While Hank and Tyler moved to the back of the tent, Stella, in her sweet way, talked Mrs. Biggs into coming back to the funeral home with her. They’d all tried to take her to lunch without success, but when Stella said she needed help with a family meal after this rainy-day funeral, Mrs. Biggs agreed to leave for a few hours.

  Hank helped Tyler walk the ladies to the Cadillac. After climbing into his truck, he called his sister Liz to try to book another lunch date.

  Her line was busy.

  He decided to just drop by. They’d been close as children, even though Claire had been between them in age. Liz liked to follow him around and ask questions about everything she saw. She’d always been smart, in a dingy kind of way. She could make the dean’s honor roll, but she couldn’t remember to put gas in her car. She could make him laugh, and she could make him furious.

  The past month Hank wasn’t sure how she was doing. He had a feeling she was trying to prove something to herself and he wished her well, but as her big brother he still felt the need to keep an eye on her.

  Chapter 10

  OFFICE ON THE SQUARE

  LIZ LEANED AGAINST HER LONG WINDOWS AND WATCHED Mrs. Patterson try to open her umbrella as she climbed out of her ’98 Lincoln. No other woman in town had her name used more with “I’ll tell you what she should do” than Martha Q Patterson.

  For as long as Liz could remember, she’d heard people giving Martha Q advice—not to her face, of course, but behind her back. Years ago most women hated the flaming redhead, and most men watched her because though she wasn’t a beauty, she was one of those rare women who drew men as if by smell.

  About the time age turned Martha Q’s hair more brown than red, the hate that folks felt toward her also dulled. Maybe partly because she lived with Bobby Earl and took care of him, but slowly the women of Harmony accepted her back home with the same kind of tired shrug with which they might have accepted a bothersome creak in the flooring. They didn’t include her in their circle of friends or invite her to anything that didn’t involve a donation at the door, but they no longer talked in death-threat tones when her name was brought up.

  Liz grinned as Martha Q started up the steps to her office. Liz had secretly always loved the woman. Martha Q had lived her life by her own rules and standards. Even today she wore rhinestone-red cowboy boots and a hat to match with her olive-green jogging suit. Liz remembered stories of Martha Q climbing the water tower and flashing the town when she’d been sixteen and only a B cup. She’d done it again at twenty with double Ds. She’d gotten engaged so many times years ago that folks said she should have her own column on the social page every Sunday. She’d married her third husband because he’d told her he was dying. After six months, with him looking no sicker, she shot him to hurry the process along. He’d gotten so mad, he’d dialed 911 before he started beating her with the phone. When the police arrived, they arrested him and forgot to list the bullet wound in the report.

  Giggling, Liz waited with her office door open. Martha Q had to be coming to see her. The morning was certainly no longer dull.

  The woman hurried in, a powder puff cloud of perfume and bling. “Hope I’m not bothering you, miss, but I’m here to see Elizabeth Matheson, the lawyer.” She dropped the dripping umbrella on the wicker chair, took off the red cowboy hat, and shook her head. The damp, sprayed hair didn’t move.

  “I’m Liz Matheson.” Liz circled her desk fighting down a laugh. The lady looked like she was wearing a helmet.

  Martha Q wrinkled up one eyebrow. A painted-on shadow of the brow wiggled just above like an echo. “You sure you’re old enough to be a lawyer? You don’t look a minute past ponytails and braces.”

  Liz tried to stand taller. “I promise.” She pointed at the diploma on the wall. “I got proof.”

  Martha nodded. “All right then, Miss Elizabeth Matheson. You got time to see me?”

  Liz didn’t want to look too hungry. “I had my morning court appointment postponed.” She’d been practicing “sounding busy” during her “looking busy” afternoons. “Luckily, I can work you in, Mrs. Patterson.”

  Martha Q moved to the chair in front of Liz’s desk. “You know who I am?”

  “I do.” Liz took her seat. “Now, Mrs. Patterson, how may I help you?”

  Martha fiddled with her scarf for a moment before she began. Her pink scarf clashed with her green-studded jogging jacket, which clashed with her boots, which clashed with a canary-yellow purse that looked almost big enough to hold a small car. The woman was a nightmare’s rainbow twin.

  Liz offered her coffee. As she fetched it, Martha Q patted her face dry and caught her breath.

  When Liz sat back in
her chair, Martha Q began, “First, Miss Matheson, we just might become friends and, with that possibility in mind, I suggest two things. One, that you allow me to take you to lunch, and two, that you call me Martha Q.”

  “I’d love to,” Liz agreed. “Call me Liz.”

  Settling into the chair like a nesting hen, Martha Q said, “Well, now that that is taken care of, we can do our business before we eat. I’d like to know how much you’d charge for me to have you on retainer.”

  “Are you in some kind of legal trouble?”

  Martha Q shook her head. “No, not right now, but legal trouble is like lint to my way of thinking. I have a way of attracting both. I’d just like to know that I could call you if I had a question about something and you’d always answer the phone.”

  “I’d answer without the retainer,” Liz said honestly.

  “But”—Martha frowned—“if you was on retainer and something bad came along, you’d be bound not only to answer, but to stick by me.”

  Liz saw it then. No more than a flicker in the light, but there. Martha Q Patterson was alone, totally alone, maybe for the first time in her life. She probably wouldn’t even admit it to herself, but she needed to know someone would be there.

  Having no idea what to bill, she guessed. “I charge three hundred a month retainer. If something legal comes up, I’ll represent you and bill my hourly rate, but no matter what, when you call, I’ll answer. And”—Liz smiled—“I don’t charge for any discussions over lunch as long as you pick up the check.”

  Martha relaxed. “Fair enough. I like to eat out once a week. Is that agreeable with you?”

  Liz grinned. “I can work you in, but I warn you, I’m not a light eater.”

  Martha barked a laugh. “Good for you. I don’t believe in taking small bites of nothing in this life. Now, to the first question. Where do we have lunch?”

  They were still discussing possibilities as Liz locked up the office, and they walked down the stairs ignoring the mist of rain that remained in the air. Nothing but a direct downpour would have affected Martha Q’s hair, and Liz’s short curls only got curlier.