by Nancy Bush
After a time, he headed upstairs to a game room, and Lucy moseyed up there herself a short time later. Dallas was watching a couple of guys compete in a video game matchup . . . and he was taking shit from a shorter, muscular guy who thought he was God’s gift, in Lucy’s biased opinion.
“C’mon, man. Loosen up. Your brother knew how to loosen up. There are stories to be told ... stories to be told, to be sure.”
“Long-ago stories,” Dallas answered agreeably enough. “He’s a cop now.”
“But he’s still a brother.” He held out his arms and shifted around to encompass the mostly shitty decor of the older building that housed their fraternity. “You never were a brother here.”
“Nope.”
The shorter man was called Jimbo, which was a short form for his name, Jim Borden. No matter that Dallas clearly had no interest in the whole fraternity scene, Jimbo wouldn’t give up on him. He kept invoking Dallas’s younger brother’s name, Lucas, who was several years out of school already. Lucy learned later that Dallas himself was through law school and in practice at a well-respected Portland firm, but at the time she hadn’t been interested in much more than getting to know him.
“C’mon, man,” Jimbo encouraged. “Chugalug! Take a little walk on the wild side for once in your life. We got shots of everything you could want downstairs. Jell-O shots for the ladies, too.” He leered around, his gaze briefly settling on Lucy, who was standing to one side.
“I’m fine,” Dallas told him.
Dallas’s friend was somewhere in the fraternity house with his little brother, hanging with him as a way to monitor him, from what Lucy picked up from the conversations around her, and it left Dallas in much the same boat as Lucy, waiting on their friends.
Lucy was also drinking from the keg, and eventually Jimbo noticed her hanging around and suddenly decided she was the one he would dangle in front of Dallas as bait. She laughingly tried to call him off, but he was loud and persuasive and, well, she did want to meet Dallas, so she let herself go along with Jimbo. Though she wasn’t really thinking of it in those terms that night, Dallas was everything she was looking for in a man. Jimbo was just a means to an end for her, and he was kind of amusing in his let’s-all-get-drunk-and-naked—apparently, one of his favorite sayings—way.
She tried to talk a bit to Dallas, but he barely looked at her.
And then ... there was a gap of time she couldn’t quite recall. In vague flashes of remembrance, she recalled being in Dallas’s arms on a bed somewhere. They were kissing, and then making love. Or, rather, having sex, because she couldn’t really credit that to lovemaking when she could barely remember it, and he didn’t seem to recall it much either.
He fell asleep almost immediately afterward, and Lucy lay beside him. She slowly sobered up, naked and surprised and somehow . . . happy? She’d wanted him, and well, she’d gotten him, sort of. She was thrilled to be in his arms. She liked feeling his muscular back and his legs tangled with hers. She hadn’t experimented much sexually. It all seemed too messy and problematic, and yet she’d gone to bed with a man she barely knew and had no regrets ... at least then....
She could barely credit that attitude now. What had she been thinking? Nothing, apparently, past that moment.
She wasn’t on the pill. Wasn’t prepared in any way. Hadn’t even thought it through! It was so unlike her, that it took her a long time to admit that maybe, just maybe, she’d been roofied. There was that gap and then they were in bed ... She wasn’t sure who had initiated their coupling, but she kind of thought it was her. She could recall kissing him, standing up, reaching on her tiptoes . . . and then they were in the bedroom ...
Criminy . . . no, that wasn’t good enough. Catastrophe, like the Parisian dog/rabbits in that cartoon. That was the word. Catastrophe. She’d finished out the year and then had Evie, and then studied online and took night classes, working for her father during the day.
Dallas Denton never called, and when she called him, he pretended he didn’t even know her name. Or maybe he didn’t. She thought about telling him they were having a child, but the words stuck in her throat. He was so politely distant and disinterested and basically waiting for her to get to the reason for her call, which she declared was a lawsuit she still had to think about. When he asked her her name again, she lied and said she was Lucia Rochet, a fake name she’d sometimes used in her youth, when she’d wanted to make herself sound more exotic.
Over the years, she’d worked up a grievance that had hardened into resentment against him. She wouldn’t tell anyone the truth, not even Layla, who only knew Evie’s conception was the product of a one-night stand. Layla had asked carefully, “And you didn’t use birth control?”
Lucy had thought about excusing herself with the roofie theory, but instead she just shook her head and let the story die. Her father questioned her mercilessly about Evie’s mysterious father, but Lucy would never tell. Whatever she thought about Dallas Denton, she didn’t need her father coming after him, barrels loaded. She knew Abbott would chase Dallas down, guns blazing. Not that he really gave a damn about Lucy, but the blemish on the family name ... a granddaughter without a father ... that he would defend like a warrior.
So, Lucy had Evie and it was pretty wonderful, mostly, even though being a single parent was a challenge. And then she’d met John ... John was another guy she’d been attracted to because of his seriousness. It felt a little like déjà vu. She was attracted to a strong man, who, in this case, was attracted to her, too.
What she’d neglected to realize until it was too late was that John’s sense of responsibility came from a need to control.
Ah, well ...
One of these days, she was going to have to tell Evie the truth, but that was a ways off. More immediately, she might have to tell Layla. She’d mentioned she knew Dallas Denton to her sister, once upon a time, but she hadn’t specifically said he was Evie’s father. All she’d said about that was that she’d tried to call Evie’s father shortly after learning she was pregnant, but he hadn’t been interested in her or her child. This was a stretching of the truth, but it was as far as she’d wanted to go. She was so embarrassed and yes, ashamed, roofie or no, that she’d slept with a man who cared so little for her that he couldn’t even pretend he liked her the next morning. He had, in fact, gotten up and left while Lucy was trying to search out a safe ladies’ room in the fraternity—and it had taken her a hell of a long time to find said safe place. When she finally came back to the room, the only part of him that was still there was the faint scent of a man’s cologne, a familiar aroma she still caught once in a while—in a mall, or an airport, or once at their own store—that reminded her of him.
Layla had timidly questioned her once, asking whether she felt any guilt about not letting Evie’s father know, and she’d answered, quite truthfully, “No.”
But now Dallas Denton was Layla’s attorney, although how that had happened was a complete mystery. The man was a defense attorney. He represented criminals, for God’s sake. Okay, or maybe innocent people charged with crimes; Lucy preferred to think of him as the bad guy. And how had Layla even met him? Lucy wanted to know, but she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to give herself away in any way, and Layla, for all her flightiness, could be very intuitive. When Layla had first announced that Dallas was her attorney, Lucy, after the initial shock, had hoped it would all sort of go away. Maybe that could still happen. Though she absolutely wanted Layla to gain joint custody, couldn’t some other lawyer, one more versed in custody suits, take over? Lucy didn’t want to be any part of the lawsuit with Dallas in charge. What if he needed a character witness and she was put on the stand and made to tell the truth? She couldn’t imagine looking into his eyes and talking about custody rights of a child.
Her whole body shivered at the thought.
Heading back to the kitchen, she shoved thoughts of Dallas aside with an almost physical effort. Grabbing herself a bottle of club soda, she poured a tall glass o
ver ice. Maybe John would like one, too, she thought. He’d scarcely eaten anything in the past two days—most of it had come right back up—though he’d gulped water like he’d just walked out of a scorching desert.
Pouring a second glass, she carried them both to the bedroom, the ice cubes clinking in a friendly fashion. It gave her a bit of a lift. It was no good dwelling on the past. She needed to keep herself in the here and now. And maybe, if she tried harder, she could make things work with John. They were married and just going through a rough patch. Even the best of couples had them.
But first he had to get well.
“Hey,” she said, setting his glass on the nightstand, glancing around for something to use as a coaster. “I brought you something.”
He was lying quietly in the bed, turned away from her. There was a paperback book on her side of the bed. She circled the footboard, picked up the book, brought it back to John’s side, lifted the glass again, and wiped the condensation on her sleeve before setting it down on the Agatha Christie novel she’d been rereading.
She straightened up and looked down at him, sipping from her glass. He was on his back and his pallor was pale and waxy. “John?”
When he didn’t answer, she tried to set down her own glass, not caring about a coaster. But she missed the edge of the nightstand. The glass dropped to the carpet and liquid spilled out.
“John!”
She leaned over him, checked his breathing. Thready. She put a hand on his shoulder and shook him lightly. “John . . . John? Wake up. Wake up!” She shook him harder. No response. He was out cold.
A coma?
Panicked, she glanced around. Her phone. Where was her phone? In her purse ... somewhere. She reached instead for the landline handset and dialed.
“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“My husband’s ill. He’s been sick and now he’s . . . I don’t know? Maybe in a coma, I think? He’s in bed. Really sick and I can’t wake him. You need to . . .”
* * *
Lucy dashed into the ER a few minutes after John’s ambulance arrived at the hospital. She’d called Bella for emergency babysitting, but she wasn’t home. However, Bella’s mother, Maureen, heard the barely controlled panic in Lucy’s voice and offered to come over herself. As soon as she arrived, Lucy jumped into John’s Audi and, disregarding the speed limits, raced to Laurelton General.
Now she strode straight to the only manned desk in Emergency, little more than a cubicle with Formica walls separating it from two other similar arrangements. The woman behind the desk was in a roller chair, and she slid from a long credenza covered with files to where Lucy was now standing in front of her.
“I’m here for John Linfield. I’m his wife. He just arrived by ambulance,” Lucy told her. She had trouble quelling the panic in her voice. John had to be all right. He had to.
“Just a moment.” The receptionist smiled congenially. She picked up a handset. Lucy still stood in front of her, so she said, “Go ahead and take a seat in the waiting room.”
“But my husband—”
The receptionist had already turned to the conversation on the phone. Lucy turned around blindly, then walked stiffly to one of the chairs, vaguely aware of a young man sitting forward in his seat, his hands hanging limply between his knees, his eyes glued to the double doors that led to the inner workings of the emergency room. Near the windows, an elderly man and woman were cuddled into two chairs. The man’s left hand was gripping her right one hard. Closer to Lucy, a mother was cradling a toddler who was sucking her thumb, eyes closed, oblivious to her mother’s tension.
Dear God.
John ...
Lucy was sick with shock. She hadn’t paid enough attention to how ill John was. How ill is he? She shouldn’t have listened when he refused the doctor that first night at the benefit. She should have made him go into Emergency right then and there. She shouldn’t have gotten annoyed and frustrated and pissed. She shouldn’t have believed he could shake it off, man up, figure it out.
No one said the norovirus was this deadly for a healthy young man. It had been over a week, and in that time he’d never once shown signs of improvement, just insisted he didn’t need medical attention.
He’d been wrong.
And now . . . and now . . .
He’ll be all right. He will. He’s strong . . . he’s . . .
She looked down to realize she was wringing her hands.
The minutes dragged on, rain peppering the huge wall of windows, fluorescent lights shimmering over the couches and chairs of the waiting area. Sometime later, after a howling child had been brought in and hustled into an examination room, a woman in a white lab coat came through the double doors. A doctor. She stopped short, looking around the room. The young man, the elderly man, and the young mother all stared at her expectantly, each lifting their heads.
The doctor’s gaze fell on Lucy.
John. Oh. John.
Lucy got to her feet, her heart knocking in her chest.
Grim-faced, the doctor walked closer. Lucy read her name tag: Dr. Winstead. “Mrs. Linfield?” she said.
“Yes.” Lucy could barely force the word out.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Linfield.” Her voice was soft. Hushed. Firm. “We couldn’t save your husband.”
Lucy stared at her, waiting for something more. “What?” she said. “What?”
Dr. Winstead gently led her back to her chair. Lucy sat down hard. She blinked several times. The doctor was talking in that same calm tone, explaining what had happened, but she didn’t hear a word.
Couldn’t save your husband . . . John was dead? Is that what she meant? Dead? “I don’t . . . I don’t know ... I don’t know what you mean. . . .”
More words. Lucy felt herself go into full body shock. She was cold. And shaking. Her vision blurred. Her ears roared.
“. . . someone we can call?”
Was there someone they could call? That’s what she’d been asked. Was there?
“My sister,” Lucy whispered, feeling as if she were slipping into a void. Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “I’ll—I’ll call her.”
She pressed Layla’s number on her cell with quivering fingers. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears. She was dizzy.
“Hey, Luce,” Layla answered.
Lucy opened her mouth to respond and nothing came out.
“Lucy?” Layla asked, her voice sober. “What is it?”
“It’s John ... he’s . . . gone. . . .”
And then the world fell away.
Chapter Seventeen
September read the obituary of John Linfield with a distinct sense of shock. Deceased husband of Lucy Crissman Linfield. Deceased after a short illness. Deceased only a few days after the Denim and Diamonds Benefit and Auction. His illness had seemed a minor hiccup in the evening that most people hadn’t even known was going on. And it had killed him?
Was that what they were saying?
She tossed down the paper, picked up her cell, and called Jake. His voice mail was all that greeted her. She remembered then that he had a meeting this morning with, by coincidence, the people William Ogden had introduced him to the night of the benefit. She would have to wait till this afternoon to get hold of him.
Her mind went back to Linfield. Dead. Lucy Linfield was now a widow.
Glancing at the clock, she swept up a messenger bag, dropped her cell phone inside, and grabbed her jacket from a peg by the back door. She texted her old partner, Gretchen Sanders, and asked her to meet her for coffee. Gretchen texted back that she was tied up at the station; could September meet her there? September made a face. It still bothered her to go back to her old job site. Shaking that off, she headed for the door and the dark gray Subaru Outback she’d recently purchased. She drove to the Laurelton police station, steeling herself as she headed inside to the reception desk. She almost felt like an intruder. Guy Urlacher, her onetime nemesis, who always hassled her about protocol,
was no longer at the desk. It was oddly sad now that she was no longer employed.
The new hire, a young woman with short brown hair and a penchant for dark eyeliner and lots of it, looked up at her expectantly. September said, “Detective Sanders is expecting me. September Raff . . . Westerly.” She was never going to get the hang of a new name.
“Okay, I’ll let her know.”
Gretchen buzzed herself out a few moments later. Slim, tough, with curly, near black hair and slanted blue cat eyes, she smiled at September in a way she’d never done when they were working together. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, apparently, September thought. In truth, she felt much the same way as Gretchen. Somewhere along the way, they’d become friends. When they’d first been partners, their relationship had been pretty rocky. Gretchen hadn’t appreciated being saddled with a newbie, and September’s sudden celebrity, though unwanted, had drawn Gretchen’s derision.
“Come on back,” Gretchen said, eyeing the receptionist with a hard eye in case she objected, as Guy would have. “I’m ready. I’ll just get my things.”
The girl hit the buzzer and September followed Gretchen into the squad room. She looked around for Wes Pelligree, one of the other detectives she’d worked with, but only George Thompkins was in sight. Overweight George, who rode his chair rather than do fieldwork. George, who’d been kept on at the station because he had seniority over September.
George, who now looked as if he’d shed thirty pounds.
September took in his new shape in a glance and tried not to look surprised. She’d seen him at the wedding and he hadn’t looked smaller, but then, everything had been such a blur that day, anything was possible.