Love Me If You Must apam-1

by Nicole Young

  I gulped. One scratch on Deucey, and Grandma was sure to haunt me to the grave. Wisdom dictated that I pull the vehicle around back.

  I sank into the cold vinyl of the front seat and dreamed of the day I’d be brave enough to trade this lowrider in for an SUV. I wheeled down the driveway I shared with the house next door and parked in front of my very own two-car detached garage. I’d check tomorrow to see if a garage door opener had been installed or if I’d have to add that major perk to my list of must-haves.

  The slam of my car door echoed through the stillness. I headed around to Deucey’s cavernous trunk and started to unload the essentials. In the distance came the pleasant sound of a train whistle.

  I sighed in contentment. Certainly I’d made the right decision moving to Rawlings. I broke into a song, keeping the volume beneath my usual bellow, so as not to become a plague to the neighbors.

  Things couldn’t be more perfect. I could almost smell the ink on the bank check . . . almost see the smile on the nice thirty-something mommy’s face as I congratulated her on a charming new home.

  Then I’d take that week in Cancun. Or maybe a month.

  A rustle of leaves sounded in the blackness beyond the garage.

  “Who’s there?” I called, tensing.

  “Your neighbor in the yellow house around the corner. Hi.” The sound of the gentle masculine voice helped me locate its owner among the shadows near the picket fence marking my rear property line.

  The neighbors sure were friendly around here. This was my second greeting of the day. The last town I’d lived in, only the children had a smile for me. The grown-ups all looked the other way when they saw me coming. News of my past had somehow made the circuit even before I’d moved in. Must have been that prying realtor who’d somehow managed to finagle every detail out of me, all while selling me the wreck she’d called “an absolute dollhouse.” Of course, I had forgiven the gossip-hound the moment I’d pocketed the fifty thousand from the sale of that property.

  “Hi there.” I prodded my way through crunching leaves toward the form.

  “Careful. The ground’s uneven.”

  And such caring neighbors. If these people got any more polite, I might actually consider settling down here.

  At the fence, I held out my hand to the stranger. “If you’re the neighbor in the yellow house, then I’m the one in the haunted house.”

  I liked how the man’s face got all crinkly when he smiled, the creases deepened from shadows cast by far-off streetlights. He seemed to be a few years older than me, thirty-five to forty-ish, in my estimation. Not handsome really, just easy to look at.

  He took my hand in return. At the warmth of his skin, I realized I’d been shivering. I pulled my fingers away and rubbed my upper arms.

  “Cold tonight,” I said.

  “Here, put my coat on.” Without waiting for my consent, he took off his jacket and leaned over the fence to wrap it around my shoulders. His body heat still emanated from the fabric as I pulled it close.

  The chill disappeared immediately. I meant to thank him, but a noise, growing louder by the moment, held me in frozen bewilderment. The approaching rumble shook the earth under my feet. Even the fence vibrated. Suddenly a head-splitting shriek cut through the air.

  Wooooo! Woo-woo! Wooooooo!

  The blast of the train whistle sent my hands flying to cover my ears. I stared across the yard in horror as three engines and at least a million freight cars vibrated their way through my once-quiet neighborhood.

  My stupidity was drilled into me with each deafening lurch of metal grinding metal. I hadn’t dared ask the real estate agent if the train tracks were still active. What if she’d said yes? Then I would have had to walk away from the deal of the century. But, come on, did they even use trains anymore?

  “Welcome to Rawlings,” my new neighbor shouted over the din.

  I gave him a weak smile. No sense trying to answer until the calamity passed. A flashing light marked the last car. I watched as it disappeared from sight.

  “Tell me that only happens once a month,” I said, wrapping the leather of his jacket more tightly about my shoulders now that both hands were free again.

  “I wish I could say the thing only came through once a day, but—” he sighed—“once an hour is more accurate.”

  I straightened, indignant. “Once an hour! I’ve been here since three p.m. and this is the first I knew that Rawlings had trains!”

  “It all averages out,” he said with a shrug. “By the way”—he reached over the fence and touched my hand again—“I’m Brad Walters. Officer Brad, the kids call me.”

  My hand turned clammy in his. “Officer? As in police officer?”

  “That’s right. One dedicated boy in blue at your service.”

  I was sure his smile was meant to charm, but I could only see the leers that had spread viciously across the faces of other wearers of blue. Officer Brad’s gentle voice, asking me if I’d like some tomatoes he’d gleaned from the garden before the freeze, was masked by the cruel memory of clubs raking across bars.

  I pulled away from him and mumbled a good night as I headed toward the back porch.

  “Wait!” came his voice from behind me.

  I stopped, breathing deeply to collect myself.

  I turned to face him.

  “My jacket,” he said, smiling. “I need it for my shift.”

  I wore his uniform. I whipped the leather off my shoulders and carried it back to him, dangling it between two fingers like used facial tissue.

  The officer’s hand wrapped my wrist as he collected his pilfered coat.

  “You never told me your name.” He said it softly, like a guy might say, “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

  I could only stare at him, asking myself why I was still standing there by the fence, letting him touch me . . . asking myself what it might be like if he leaned over and kissed me with those lips that weren’t all that handsome but housed the kindest voice.

  “I’ve got to run.” I sprinted toward my house, glad to have escaped before I blurted out my name, giving the officer the two words that, when entered into his police computer, would once again make me the outcast of the neighborhood.

  I double-bolted the kitchen door, then leaned against the scorched countertop and put my head in my hands.

  He had no right to my past. I wasn’t a sex offender with an obligation to announce my crime to the community every time I moved. My past was private.

  And I intended that it stay that way.

  3

  Daylight poured through the windows of the six-sided drawing room, the one I’d chosen for the new master suite. I groaned and rolled to my elbow on the narrow cot. My travel clock said nearly nine. I could kick myself for thinking that sleeping in was possible without blackout shades to cover the array of double-hungs.

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, though I could swear I hadn’t gotten a wink. After reading past midnight, I’d fallen into a fitful slumber punctuated by train whistles that seemed to blend into one all-night-long peal.

  At the thought of the train, my meeting with Officer Brad splashed over my mind like a bucket of cold water, bringing me to immediate wakefulness.

  I sat up. I hadn’t wanted to start out with stares of accusation right off the bat. I’d rather enjoyed my encounter with David Ramsey and had hoped to keep a low profile, at least until I found out if David was available. I hadn’t been in a relationship since college. I figured I could handle one by now. And David Ramsey, with his ring finger bare of gold, made a possible candidate. But one wrong word from Brad Walters could put the kibosh on that in a hurry.

  I tweaked my split ends. What chance did I stand with a hunk like David anyway? I’d have more luck with the boy in blue, even with my record. But honestly, Brad Walters could be available ’til the moon turned to cheese. I wasn’t about to get involved with a police officer. I had run for my life to escape his prying last night, only to sneak back outs
ide later to retrieve my forgotten gear. The last thing I needed was a table for two at the local restaurant, with Sherlock Holmes in the seat across from me.

  I faced facts. Whether I liked it or not, my love life would remain as barren in Rawlings as it had in Walled Lake, Pontiac, and Rochester. But that didn’t give me permission to lie around and get depressed.

  I jumped up and did my morning stretches, giving the neighborhood watchdog quite a show in my T-shirt and spandex shorts. The woman was in her front yard, bundled in one of those fat, quilted coats. She appeared to be minding her own business as she cut back her rosebushes for the season. Yet, every so often, she’d toss her gray hair in my direction.

  Spy.

  Let her have her thrills. I reached toward the ceiling, then touched the floor. I wasn’t about to start caring what the neighbors thought—except for one.

  Five minutes later, I gave a final stretch. I checked out my reflection in one of the far windows. Tall, slim, and toned.

  Mm-hmm. I still had it.

  I took a few cleansing breaths. The contractors would be here at ten, and I still needed to shower and find some food to stuff into the hole that had formed in the lining of my stomach.

  I rifled through my backpack and picked out my supplies: two-in-one shampoo, a bar of Dial, and a razor. The double-bladed Daisy with lubricating strip was a privilege I didn’t take lightly. I probably had the smoothest legs in the state.

  I headed to the bath off the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, I ran a brush through my snarls, then pulled on blue jeans and a turtleneck. I tied my sneakers, flung on my denim coat, and covered my still-wet hairdo with a floppy knit hat that Grandma had given me when I’d been a freshman in college. I’d hated the flashy pink thing back then and had pitched it in the back of my closet. But now, I treasured it. Grandma had made it with her own hands.

  I locked the front door and started up the street toward the quaint business district that made Rawlings seem like the set from a ’20s mobster movie. The crisp morning air was invigorating. All the phantoms from the previous night disappeared into cool autumn sunshine. I paused at the railroad tracks, determined not to let one of the numerous Midnight Specials that had flown past last night flatten me this morning.

  All clear.

  I angled kitty-corner over to Independence Alley and the Whistle Stop Coffee Shop. I’d seen the local coffeehouse on my first trip to town and spent many an hour plotting leisurely morning walks over to its irresistible row of carafes marked Hazelnut, Vanilla Nut, Amaretto, Irish Cream, Chocolate Raspberry . . . Its convenient locale was probably the determining factor for the purchase of my big old haunted mansion.

  I smiled at the server behind the cash register, a girl of about eighteen whose hair matched the mahogany of the counter.

  I consciously avoided staring at all the face jewelry. “I’d like a tall café mocha with extra whipped cream, please.”

  The girl looked at me over her nose pearl, with a long, sweeping gaze that had my dream of a quick cup of java melting like a marshmallow in boiling water. I tried not to breathe any more of the robust coffee scent than absolutely necessary. A caffeine headache already prodded my temples, no doubt aggravated by the delay.

  The teen’s eyebrow ring gave a tilt. “You totally look like someone who used to live around here.”

  Yeah, that’s me. Generic face.

  “I just moved in,” I said. “Maybe it’s the hat that’s familiar.” I gave the brim a jaunty slant. “It’s me, Ilsa Lund.”

  The girl’s lip curled in ignorance.

  “From Casablanca,” I said.

  The clerk’s eyes glazed.

  “It’s an old movie.” That was one thing I had been grateful for over the years. I’d gotten to see the classics, something of which the younger generation was obviously deprived.

  I waved it off. “Never mind. I think I’ll have a cinnamon roll too. That big one in front will be perfect.”

  I pointed through the glass of the display case. The girl wrapped the pastry in paper and handed it to me, then got busy at the coffee machine.

  While I waited, I looked out the window and took a bite of the aromatic roll. The sugar melted on my tongue, nearly sending my mouth into spasms from the sudden onset of food.

  Rawlings was about as perfect a town as I could imagine. Cobblestones paved the one-block length of Independence Alley. Near the corner, the stones made a Liberty Bell pattern with the numbers 1776 beneath, welcoming visitors to the one-way street. Across from the coffee shop was Clothing Junction. Sweaters with Halloween designs hung like scarecrows in the window. Next to it was Heavenly Scents, then Fashion Depot and Victoria’s Sweet Shop. Pumpkins, bales of straw, and stalks of corn decorated the street all the way to the door of the historic Rawlings Hotel at the far end.

  “Here’s your coffee.” The tapping of fingernails on wood accompanied the words.

  I turned and gave the girl my biggest smile. “Thanks. Have a great day.” I left a big tip, hoping that my next visit would merit top-notch service.

  As I walked down Main Street, I could see a burgundy truck pulling into my driveway, the words Lloyd & Sons etched in white on the side.

  I quickened my pace, shoveling down bits of roll in between sips of coffee. I loved a contractor who was early. The project had a chance of getting done on schedule if the pattern held.

  “Here I am,” I called, waving as I cut across both street and tracks. I’d just landed my foot on the corner of my lawn when the high-pitched squeal of a police siren sounded behind me.

  I froze. The cinnamon roll and coffee I’d been savoring suddenly lodged in my throat.

  Bleep. Bleep. The siren persisted.

  I turned slowly, crushing my eyes shut, not wanting to believe it possible I could be detained for jaywalking.

  I opened them.

  A silver and blue police cruiser angled to a stop against the curb. The driver’s side door opened. Officer Brad got out and flicked me a wave over the top of the vehicle. I tried to shrink inside myself. My eyes dropped to the sidewalk at his approach.

  Never look a uniform in the eye. Be submissive. Don’t smart off. The lessons that had served me well over the years were second nature to me now. I dropped my hands to my sides. The coffee cup dangled between two fingers. The last bite of cinnamon roll plunked to the ground.

  “Hello, Miss Amble.” In front of me, shiny leather boots glinted in the morning sunshine.

  My nostrils flared and I diverted my gaze to a patch of grass growing over the concrete.

  So. He’d already looked me up in the computer. Already knew my name. My crime. The number of days I’d served penance.

  My jaw clenched. I held back the smart comments begging to burst out.

  He leaned toward me as if trying to catch my eye. I gave him a broader view of my cheek and ear instead.

  He cleared his throat. “I enjoyed talking to you last night, and I wondered if you might be interested in grabbing a bite to eat with me after work. You know, a welcome-to-the-neighborhood kind of thing.”

  The wind kicked up a swirl of leaves. A curly gold one settled on my crosstrainer. I tipped my foot and shook it off.

  “How about the Rawlings Hotel?” he said. “The beef Wellington is tremendous.”

  I looked sideways at the bare branches of the maple standing between me and the tracks. As much as I would love to taste the cuisine at the gourmet restaurant, Officer Brad was probably just hoping to use me for the subject of some evening-class dissertation. I could hear the questions now. “So, Miss Amble, why did you do it? What was going through your head while you administered the lethal dose? What, if anything, did you learn from your rehabilitation? How can you live with yourself today, knowing what you’ve done?”

  My adrenaline had soared with the first blare of the police siren. Now, I was too keyed up to rein in my anger. I met his eyes and jabbed one finger toward his shirt.

  “Listen, Officer Brad”—I spat his name—
“if you come near me again, I’ll have a restraining order slapped on you so fast your hat will spin. And if you breathe one word of my past to anyone—ANYONE—you’ll find yourself in a civil suit that’ll last ’til Judgment Day. Are we clear about that?”

  “Perfectly.” His lip twitched. “So if you don’t want to do dinner tonight, how about church on Sunday?”

  My jaw locked open. How dare he mock me? I wasn’t about to parade my list of sins in front of good, God-fearing people.

  He tipped his cap. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be at the one up on Rawlings Road. Service is at ten.”

  He walked back to the cruiser.

  I started to turn toward my house, but stopped as my gaze landed on the neighborhood spy. The woman stood beside an island of leaves in a sea of grass. She held my stare, rake pointed skyward. I bristled. The woman didn’t even try to pretend she hadn’t witnessed the scene with Officer Brad. I could only pray the words had disappeared in the breeze.

  A melancholy crept through my mind, turning high hopes into black goo. I clenched my fist. The lid popped off the Styrofoam coffee cup and blew away. I supposed I’d get ticketed for littering next.

  So what. Let Brad Walters gossip to the world. With any luck, I’d finish this project and shake the dust of Rawlings off my feet by spring.

  4

  The pungent odor of a thriving mildew colony met me as I led the contractor and his two assistants into the basement.

  “Careful. These things were made for a size 5 shoe,” I said, turning sideways on the steps to keep my footing.

  Bare bulbs, scattered about the seven-foot-high ceiling, cast a dim glow on stone walls. The cement floor, a novelty in a turn-of-the-century home, had mostly turned to dirt over the years. Only a narrow slash of concrete around the perimeter shone a bright white, the results of a recent attempt at waterproofing. The way the realtor explained it, workers jackhammered a twelve-inch-wide ditch around the edges, buried porous drain pipes, and tied the whole thing into a sump pump. Any water trying to seep into the basement from the water table below would be safely diverted.