Joyride

by Patricia Coughlin

  The papers for the next several days contained progressively smaller stories about the tragedy, mention of the bodies being identified and claimed by the woman’s older brother, General Henry L. Hollister, and reference to the autopsy finding that she had been seven weeks pregnant when she died.

  The woman, Cat thought forlornly, wrapping her arms around herself tightly in the silent room. The victim. Her mother. Not the princess in a fairy tale, after all. Just a woman, a woman who was left alone on a dark country road and then run over by her own husband. My father, she thought, confused about what she should feel. A drunk? Maybe. An accident? She bit down on her bottom lip, once again drawing blood. Maybe. That didn’t make her feel any better. Or change the weight in the pit of her stomach that promised that in a while, when the truth with all its implications had time to fully sink in, she was going to feel a whole lot worse.

  Searching for some way to hold that impending nightmare at bay, she methodically folded and piled the newspapers. She double-checked the dates to make sure they were in chronological order and then lined up the edges with the military precision she knew so well and placed them at the far side of the desk, where they would be safe. Only then did she put her head down on the table and cry.

  Chapter Ten

  The Chevy’s brakes squealed and pulled the front end hard to the left as Bolt slammed to a halt in front of the Baxter Times. That was why they invented anti-lock brakes, he reflected disgustedly, not to mention tubeless tires.

  He’d been blithely cruising the back roads of Baxter, killing some time before he returned to meet Cat, when a blowout had almost sent him into a gully. No problem, he’d thought as he hopped out to take a look at the flat front right tire. After all, he was an old hand at changing tires in a hurry and under adverse conditions. Truck tires, jeep tires, once even a tire on the landing gear of a small two-man propeller plane. He could have changed this one without a hitch, too, if he—or anyone else in the general vicinity—had happened to have an inner tube handy.

  An inner tube. His lips curled distastefully as he hopped out and crossed the sidewalk to the steps in three long strides. Who would pay good money for a car that still required inner tubes? If you asked him, nostalgia was nice from a distance, but a major pain in the butt in practice. He’d turned the trunk inside out in hopes that whoever had polished the car’s chrome so faithfully had also tucked away a spare inner tube, but no luck.

  As he’d repacked it, he’d cursed, thinking that big old road yachts like the convertible were supposed to have trunks roomy enough to hold luggage for an army. Just not an army of pack rats like Cat, who seemed dedicated to arriving home with double the amount of stuff she started with.

  He glanced at his watch as he yanked open the door to the newspaper office, once again muttering under his breath. He was over two hours late. And he was worried. All the way there he’d been praying Cat would be outside waiting for him, furious about the long wait, but safe.

  When he’d realized he was going to be late getting back, he’d called and tried to reach her at the paper, but she wasn’t there. He’d speculated that she might have run into a dead end at the paper and followed his suggestion about checking out the police report on the accident. He considered calling the police station to see if she was there and then, if necessary, calling every place in Baxter until he found her. Unfortunately that would have tied up the one-line phone at the one-horse service station that was trying to track down an inner tube on his behalf.

  So he had been forced to just sit there and wait and worry. And pray. Something he didn’t do well or often and never on his own behalf.

  Obviously his prayers hadn’t been answered this time. Cat wasn’t outside waiting, and the woman at the front desk had no idea where she might have gone or when, only that she had directed her to the basement in search of back issues of the paper hours ago.

  It was nearly six, closing time, so he hurried down there, still praying. Maybe he would find her there after all, too engrossed in her search to hear herself being paged. Maybe it had taken longer than either of them expected to ferret out a news story nearly twenty years old. Maybe she’d left for some reason and returned without the receptionist seeing her.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe. There were other maybes he’d rather not think about. He was right back where he’d been that day at the rest stop, scared and worried and cursing himself for mistakes and oversights he was too late in recognizing.

  For the past two days he’d been so immersed in his own problems and so busy feeling sorry for himself, he’d dropped his guard like some rookie put in charge of the candy store and getting sick on chocolate. Had the Mustang been anywhere around in the past forty-eight hours? He had no idea. He hadn’t been watching very intently. Maybe it had been there and he’d missed it and now he was going to find out how high a price he would have to pay for his mistake this time. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  Cat wasn’t in the newspaper’s morgue, either. The old man in charge greeted Bolt with a smile and sauntered over to the counter to ask if he could help him.

  Bolt told him who he was and what he wanted in a rush. The old man listened, nodding emphatically.

  “She was here, all right,” he said when Bolt finished. “But it was, oh, at least a couple hours ago that she left. And yes, she was asking about an accident that happened out on Route 10 back in ‘78. Even wanted me to write out the directions for her to get out there.”

  Of course. The pressure in Bolt’s chest eased slightly. Once she had found out what she needed to know, Cat would never have sat around waiting for him before she did what she had come here to do. Especially not after he’d told her he didn’t want to be part of it, he thought, feeling like a heel.

  “Did you give her directions?” he asked the older man.

  “Of course. Couldn’t see why I shouldn’t.”

  “Of course not. Could you please tell me how to get there?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t now, either.”

  Bolt listened to the simple directions. “Thanks. Just one more thing. Did she ask to use the phone to call a taxi? Or mention anything about how she intended to get there?”

  “No,” the man replied thoughtfully. “But I sort of got the feeling she planned to walk. I told her it wasn’t more than a couple of miles.”

  He pursed his lips, his bushy steel brows lowering into a troubled frown.

  “What is it?” Bolt asked him.

  “Nothing, maybe, and none of my business to be sure. But... Ah, what the heck? You said you’re a friend of hers, right?”

  “Yes. A good friend.”

  “Then maybe you ought to know that I did notice how reading those old news stories really upset her. I looked in there at her once and she was crying her heart out, poor thing. I just let her be. When she left, she had dark glasses on. To hide her eyes, I suspected, but I didn’t ask.”

  Bolt nodded, his heart twisting in his chest. Damn, he should have been here with her. He wished he had been, instead of off nursing his stupid wounded pride.

  “The couple killed in that accident were her parents,” he explained.

  The other man winced and gave a small nod. “I wondered if that was it. That explains it, then. A tragedy like that...it’s hard to face at any age. We all like to think our parents never made any stupid mistakes.”

  Bolt was only half listening as he thanked him for his help and left. He’d driven the old car hard on the way back to town from the service station, but he pushed it even harder now. When he caught the red light at the corner, he drummed his fingers on the wheel impatiently and took the opportunity to double-check the simple map the old man had insisted on drawing for him.

  Two miles, he’d said. If he was right about her walking, that should have taken Cat about a half hour, forty-five minutes, tops. That still left a lot of time unaccounted for. He suddenly recalled that she’d said something about bringing some flowers with her. Finding a bouquet of flowe
rs in Baxter could have taken her a while, he reasoned. Or else maybe he was overreacting entirely and he would any minute run into her as she made her way back to meet him.

  The trouble was, he didn’t like maybes any better than he liked messing up. The light finally turned green and he took off, flooring it as he followed the sign for Route 10. As he drove, his gaze darted ahead in hopes of catching a glimpse of Cat walking along the roadside. Fragmented thoughts and worries bombarded him. Amidst all that inner turmoil, he suddenly recalled one of the last things the old man at the Times had said, something about no one wanting to think their parents made stupid mistakes.

  Now that he thought about it, Bolt was relieved that the old goat hadn’t had a chance to discuss his warped view of the matter with Cat. He happened to be something of an authority on stupid mistakes, and in his opinion, getting killed in an accident that wasn’t your fault didn’t come close to qualifying. Working in that basement must have gotten to the old guy.

  At least his directions were accurate. He had described to Bolt the place where Route 10 intersected with Ashland Road, forming a crooked X, and the flashing yellow light that cautioned drivers in all directions to reduce speed. When Bolt saw the flashing light in the distance and still no sign of Cat, his heart sank. He’d been so sure he would find her out there somewhere.

  What now? he was asking himself even as he caught sight of a flash of white on his left. There was an old stone wall set about ten feet from the road. Sitting there with her back against the wall was Cat.

  Bolt drank in the sight of her in jeans and a white T-shirt, her legs crossed in front of her, her long hair hanging loosely over her shoulders, the color of corn silk in the setting sun. Relief like he’d never felt before rippled through him, and for a few seconds he felt strangely weak. He found himself praying once again, almost unconsciously, thanking whoever was in charge of such things for keeping her safe for him and promising that he would never take chances with her again.

  The grassy strip between the road and the wall provided ample room for him to pull over and park the car. He climbed out slowly, still savoring the knowledge that everything was okay, amazed at how powerful an emotion relief could be. He’d had many much closer calls than this in his life without feeling this way afterward. But then, usually before he had been the one at risk.

  The relief he’d felt when he made it safely past the danger those other times was nothing like what he felt now as he slowly walked over and lowered himself to the ground by Cat’s side. Either he was crazy or the entire world had suddenly gotten a lot prettier, the sky bluer, the grass greener. The sounds of the birds in the branches overhead and the rustling of small creatures in the woods behind the wall sounded like music to his ears.

  Cat still hadn’t looked up or acknowledged his presence. Bolt understood. No matter how good it felt to him to find her safe here, she had very different matters on her mind. Matters, he reminded himself, that were bound to leave her feeling sad.

  He looked at her, seeing the tearstains on her cheeks where they fanned from beneath her sunglasses and the bunch of wildflowers that lay near her feet, as if she’d tossed them aside.

  He thought of explaining why he’d been late and telling her how worried about her he’d been, but no matter how he phrased it, it all seemed ridiculously inconsequential compared to what she must be thinking and going through as she sat there.

  “How are you doing?” he asked finally.

  She didn’t speak, didn’t even turn her head.

  Bolt forced himself to remain quiet. If she wanted to just sit there, he’d sit. Hell, at that moment he’d have jumped though fiery hoops like some trained circus animal for her. Anything so long as she didn’t tell him to go away. Sitting with her would be a pleasure. Actually, at that moment, he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than sit beside her, just be there for her if she should need him to talk to her or hold her or even to simply chase away the mosquitoes that occasionally emerged from the tall grass tufts in the wall’s crevices.

  He loved her.

  It hit him out of the blue. Just like that. No warning, no deep thinking and absolutely no possibility of misunderstanding. He was as certain of it as he was that night followed day. He was in love with her, Catrina Amelia Bandini, a woman who was too young, too vulnerable and much too closely related to the general.

  None of that mattered. He was in love with her, that’s what mattered, that’s all that mattered, and along with that knowledge came the realization that from that moment on his love for her would affect every aspect of his life.

  He felt breathless and exhilarated at the same time. Following quickly came an overwhelming urge to tell her. He stopped himself. He’d never before actually told a woman that he loved her. He knew now that he’d never really loved another woman before Cat. But as inexperienced as he was, he knew this wasn’t the right moment to announce it.

  He tucked the knowledge away, like a kid pocketing a shiny stone to wish on later, and took a couple of deep breaths.

  When he looked at her again she seemed not to have moved, as if she was frozen at whatever level of pain she’d descended to. Bolt’s heart ached for her. The urge to do something to help her was bridled by the frustrating fact that he had no idea where to begin. If she were to ask him to take a beating or risk his life for her, he would be prepared and more than willing. But what she needed to help her through this was something else, something he didn’t understand.

  Unable to resist any longer, he reached out and stroked her arm. At last she moved, turning her head just a fraction in his direction. Bolt had no idea how familiar he’d become with every line and pore on her face until he instantly noticed the marks on her bottom lip.

  He cupped her chin and turned her face toward him fully, frowning. “What happened to your lip?”

  “Nothing.” Her voice was soft and laced with raw emotion.

  “It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” he observed, running his thumb over her soft flesh and feeling a totally inappropriate response all the way to his toes. “Does it hurt?”

  Cat shrugged and shook her head. “I can’t even feel it.”

  Oh, Cat. He sat with his jaw tightly clenched, aching to do something for her, damning himself for not knowing what.

  “You were right, you know,” she said as he sat there feeling useless.

  Bolt snatched at the meager overture. “I was? About what?”

  Again she shrugged, so feeble a version of the haughty gesture he’d grown accustomed to seeing that it tore at his heart. “Everything,” she said. “Life. Destiny.”

  “What about destiny?”

  “It’s not what it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Ah, Cat.” This time the ragged groan was out before he could stop himself. He moved his hand to the back of her neck, kneading gently. “I know how hard this is for you. Coming here must bring back all kinds of memories, making you think about things that would be tough for anyone to handle.”

  “The only thing I keep thinking is what an idiot I’ve been.”

  “You mean for wanting to come here? Don’t think that. It’s natural to—”

  She didn’t let him finish.

  “What I mean is that I was an idiot for believing such a line of bull for so long. It was all a big lie,” she continued, faltering, revealing a tearful undercurrent to her words. “All of it, and I believed it, hook, line and sinker.”

  Bolt recalled thinking something very similar about her gullibility, but he didn’t like hearing it come from her. No more than he liked the edge of bitterness that had crept into her tone.

  “What are you talking about, sweetheart?” he asked, knowing that if she challenged his use of the word now, he could tell her honestly that he’d never meant anything so much. “What lies?”

  “Everything Uncle Hank told me about my mother and father. It was all a lie. About the accident—about how it happened, that is. There was no other car,” she told him, the words com
ing in a sharp, hurried torrent that told Bolt how painful they were for her to say. He listened without interrupting, wanting her to get it all out.

  He listened as she told him how she had found out that there was no other driver at fault for the accident, no other driver at all. He listened, horrified for her, to the reports and rumors about how her parents had argued just before the accident, about the liquor in the van and finally about how her father had been the one who had struck and killed her mother, dying an instant later himself, maybe without ever knowing what he had done.

  “That might be the worst of all,” she said, sniffling. Bolt handed her a clean handkerchief. “All these years I’ve had this picture in my head of them dying holding hands or something. Maybe grabbing for each other in the last second as they saw the other car coming at them. Soul mates to the end.”

  She gave a broken laugh, and Bolt’s heart constricted painfully. He ached for her. He wished there was some way his sympathy could ease her suffering.

  “What a joke, huh?” she continued. “Now I know there was no other car. And no such thing as soul mates, either, no magical fairy-tale love affair. Definitely no happy ending.”

  Bolt reeled from the sense of powerlessness that gripped him. He was no damn good at this, he thought, frantically wishing for some words to say that might comfort her. If she could be comforted. He understood now where her starry-eyed view of life and love had come from...from a little girl’s memory of her parents, fueled and encouraged by her uncle. If the man had been anyone other than Hollister, he could easily have hated him for the lack of judgment that had brought Cat to this moment. But knowing that the general probably felt as ill-equipped to deal with the pain of a five-year-old as Bolt was feeling right this moment, he could only empathize with him and wish to hell it hadn’t happened.

  But it had. He slid his arm around Cat’s shoulders and gently pulled her closer so that she was leaning on him. It had happened and it had understandably shaken the roots of everything she believed in. She wasn’t grieving just the death of her parents, but the death of a dream. Everything she had been taught to trust and believe in had been shattered. It was one thing for him not to believe in fairy tales. It was entirely different for Cat to have that belief ripped away from her without warning.