After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  And why not? It’s not like the police station paid for collect calls. No, the hilarious part was that while she could call freely, she simply had no one to call.

  Ten minutes later, she picked up the germ-infested receiver once again, then paused when she heard footsteps approaching. Turning, she met an officer.

  She swallowed past the dryness in her throat and replaced the receiver with a shaky hand. They’d already booked her, complete with mug shot, fingerprinting, and a strip search, after which they’d issued her an ugly jail jumpsuit. She was told she’d see a judge in the morning and bail would be set. So what now?

  “You’ve got a visitor.” The officer showed her to a seat in front of a black encased monitor. Apparently, “visit” did not mean in-person. As she picked up the phone receiver, an old man’s face appeared onscreen.

  “Hello, Charlene.”

  Her spine stiffened. Even without the screen, she’d know that tone anywhere. “Grandfather.”

  His gaze assessed her, so she returned the favor. Never a slender man, he had really packed on some pounds since the last time she’d seen him; at the same time, he looked as though he’d shed quite a lot of hair. He’d changed on the outside, but not on the inside, she wagered.

  His nose tilted upward. “You’ve been managing to do very well with your life, I see. Luxurious accommodations, splendid views, excellent room service—”

  “I get it, Grandfather. Life’s really working out for me.”

  “Indeed. See where your headstrong independence has gotten you? All because you chose to turn your back on me years ago.”

  I turned my back on you? She remembered it a little differently. Although she had refused to answer his recent calls and even the door when he showed up unexpectedly at her condo, it was his own fault. After how he’d treated her and Max, she had nothing good left to say to him.

  “You’ve been corrupted by bad influences,” Grandfather went on. “If it weren’t for that worthless convict, you wouldn’t be here now. He’s the one who started you down your dark path . . .”

  As it usually did in Grandfather’s presence, irritation bubbled within her.

  “You need me,” he continued, “and if you are finally ready to admit that and apologize for the way you treated me, I might—I just might—” he paused to dust the shoulder of his expensive suit—“consider taking you back. And with the power you know I have, I can make this—all this trouble you’re in—disappear. You can return to the life you had, the wealth, the luxury, the life that others only dream of.”

  Knowing him too well, she eyed him suspiciously. “Why would you help me now? You disowned me, remember?”

  “I’m feeling particularly benevolent, so humor me.”

  She shifted on her seat. Had he been waiting for an opportunity like this all along? For her to slip up in some way? So he could lord it over her, then take her back, saving face by requiring a humble apology—perhaps even a public one—for her refusal to side with him during Clay’s trial? But why did he want her back? He had everything. Everything material, that is.

  Her stepsister Gwen had married a very wealthy man the year before, thus breaking away from dependence on Grandfather’s money and any need to toe his line. When Gwen left the mansion he’d provided, she’d brought her mother with her. Charlene doubted they’d cared to visit him since.

  Could he be lonely?

  She peered closer at the screen. He held his jaw stiff while waiting for her answer, as if her response didn’t matter. But it must. He’d gone to the trouble of coming to this unpleasant place. She noticed more wrinkles and liver spots on his skin.

  “How did you even know I was here?”

  He made an impatient sound. “I have my connections. Anything that comes up involving the Perigard name will always be reported to me.”

  She nodded. Sure, the news of her arrest would have traveled easily. In fact, it was probably splashed all over the internet by now, and she guessed she’d soon grace a few tabloids as well.

  “And I must say, you are once again doing an exceptional job of smearing the family name. I do believe you’ve now topped Maxwell.”

  Ignoring the dig, she adjusted her grip on the phone. “You could really get me out of this mess?”

  “I can pay your bail and have you out in an instant.” He snapped his fingers. “I can provide the best lawyer there is and get the charges dropped so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

  Tempting indeed.

  “Then you’ll be free to come and work for me and live in style again.”

  Her quickening heartbeat fell to a plodding pace. She’d had that life, and grand as it was, she didn’t miss it. “We can reconcile, Grandfather, but I can’t go back to living under your rule. And I won’t say I was wrong to defend Clay. I wasn’t. I’d do it again.”

  His throat rumbled, wrinkles tightened around his mouth, bushy eyebrows dove down, eyes sparked. “That worthless convict deserves no name. He should be in prison for life.”

  “He helped save my life. Maybe that doesn’t mean anything to you, but it does to me.” Her lips compressed as she wondered briefly what Clay’s life was like now. But she’d never know. Can’t go down that road.

  She took a deep breath. “I already have a nice place to live. And I like working at the library. I’m studying for my library science degree. I’m already doing storytimes and—”

  “You’ll never make your fortune that way.”

  “It’s not all about money.”

  “So says the one who wants me to pay her bail.”

  She shook her head. “Then don’t.” I won’t beg. “You don’t owe me.”

  “I most certainly don’t.” The words sputtered from his mouth. “You’re nothing but stubborn and uncooperative.”

  “Learned from the best, I guess.” She found herself briefly wishing that he could have been a kind man like a grandfather was supposed to be. He was nothing like his son, her father.

  “Look,” she attempted, “I’m sorry that things ended so badly between us back when the trial was going on, but it’s over now.”

  Grandfather harrumphed. “A weak apology is worse than none at all.”

  She met his gaze. “Then I guess we have nothing more to say.”

  “So you’d rather sit in jail?”

  “If the alternative is being forced to say I shouldn’t have defended Clay, and I have to go live with your tyranny, then yes. I guess we can’t reach an agreement.”

  Grandfather scrutinized her, his eyes granite. “You look terrible.”

  And gaining twenty pounds hasn’t exactly done wonders for you. She shrugged.

  Silence ensued.

  At last he said, “Don’t apologize, then. My offer still stands. All I ask is you come back to the mansion with me. Where you’ll be safe and provided for.” He shifted his gaze. “I only want what’s best for you.”

  The words stunned her. Had he ever told her that before? She studied his image on the screen and wished she could see him in person, to read him better. The grandfather she knew was an unyielding man of ambitious ulterior motives. How could she trust him?

  “Well?” Something like hope came through in his voice.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and felt the vein pulsating under her fingertips. “I need to talk to Max first.”

  * * *

  Her last chance before lockdown.

  Charlene lifted the phone and punched in the numbers. Moments later, Max’s voice burst onto the line.

  “Are you kidding me? Char, what the heck are you doing in jail? Tell me you’re joking.” He groaned. “Never mind, I know you don’t joke.”

  The semi-insult slid over her. She gave him the summary, as best she could, of how she’d ended up here.

  “What, are they blind?” Max fumed. “Any idiot can see you wouldn’t touch drugs—not even if someone paid you. You wouldn’t even know drugs if you saw them.”

  She gave him a few seconds to vent, appreci
ating it, then cut him off. “Max, I’m going to need a lawyer, and bail money. Grandfather said he would—”

  “No.” Max sounded horrified. “Don’t trust him. Just hang tight. I’ve got you covered. I’ll be there as soon as I can and I’ll get you out of this, I promise.”

  She hung the weight of her worry on his words, and the load lightened. “Thanks, but you don’t have to come here. I know with your schedule and your shows—”

  “Char, are you crazy? Of course I’m coming. I’ll be there by morning.”

  After saying goodbye, she hung up and slunk back to a cold bench to await lockup.

  Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

  * * *

  The woman laid her purchases on the conveyer belt, attempting to camouflage the only item that mattered by burying it under unnecessary food items.

  Even so, the cashier recognized her and glanced twice at the item as she scanned it—the little box with the little stick that would give the verdict.

  The cashier finished the transaction, bagged the items, and handed them over with no comment. Good thing, because if the cashier had spouted any stupid remark, the woman would have made her regret it.

  The plastic bag twisting and crinkling in her sweaty grip, she stalked out of the store.

  Chapter Four

  “Here, you’ll want to put these on.” Max handed Charlene a pair of Hollywood sunglasses. “We’re about to go through the media mob.”

  How well he knew her. She slipped the shades on, glad to hide behind the huge concealing lenses, but much more relieved to be free of the jail and the courthouse, despite the crowd awaiting her. The arraignment before the judge had been brief and relatively painless, her pride notwithstanding. Max had come through with a promising lawyer and generous bail money. True, another court date loomed before her, but it was weeks away. She wouldn’t think about that right now.

  Right now, she stepped out into sunshine. She pulled in a deep lungful of fresh spring air as Max hustled her down the concrete steps.

  Cameras, microphones, and questions bombarded her. Reporters obviously craved any comment on her arrest, but Max plowed through, parting the crowd. She remained silent. Behind her dark glasses, she rolled her eyes when she heard a reporter broadcast, “Unable to cope with her traumatic past, did the formerly affluent Charlene Perigard turn to drugs for an easy escape from reality?”

  “Much too longwinded to make a good headline,” Charlene mumbled.

  Max unlocked his rental car. He and Charlene ducked inside, slammed the doors, and let out their breath simultaneously. With a jaunty, mocking wave at everyone pressing in and attempting pictures through the windows, Max tore out of the lot as fast as he could without risking a ticket.

  She removed her sunglasses and carefully ran a hand through her snarly curls. The past day was a lot to process, and the charge she faced echoed ominously in her head: possession of heroin with the intent to distribute. If convicted, she’d get anywhere from thirty to ninety days in jail. Not an extreme length of time, but the thought of serving it sent panic through her.

  “It’s like Vivian said,” Max spoke up, referring to the lawyer he’d provided, Vivian Fenwick. “You have no drug history, and all your tests came back negative. She’s already digging into this, and she’ll get the charges dismissed, don’t worry.”

  Charlene nibbled the edge of her lip, dry and ragged from lip balm deprivation. She grabbed her purse and dove a hand inside, fingers scrambling. She seized a red tube, then slicked on strawberry ChapStick, savoring the soothing smoothness.

  Max shot her a glance. “The only thing you’re addicted to is that stuff.”

  She capped the tube and dropped it back in her bag. “Dry lips are uncomfortable.”

  Max signaled a turn, indicator ticking. “The things you worry about.”

  But the little things were so much easier to worry about than the big ones. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t fathom why anyone would target her and plant drugs in her car. Perhaps back when she was in the limelight—but why now, when she’d gladly faded from the short attention span of the public eye, was she under attack? She could think of no motive besides pure hatefulness. Not comforting. She forked fingers through her oily hair and longed for a hot shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, Max parked in front of her condo, a beautiful eight-unit structure that was both modern and comfortable. It had never looked so good to her tired eyes.

  “Thanks for driving, Max.” She let them into the narrow entryway, then slipped her feet out of her shoes and flexed her toes. “Thanks for everything.”

  “No problem, Char. You got any food in this place?”

  “Help yourself.” As she watched him head through her tidy living room and into the pristine kitchen, she hoped he wouldn’t leave anytime soon. It had been too long since they’d spent time together. “I don’t know how long you’re planning on staying, but you’re welcome as long as you want.”

  Bags crinkled in the cupboard. “Sounds good. I could use a vacation from the magic scene, anyway.”

  That surprised her. Maybe he was just saying it to make her feel better. Either way, she wouldn’t argue. “I’ll be in the shower,” she called as she trotted up the carpeted stairs.

  She wanted nothing more than to savor the steaming water pelting her skin, but she made sure not to take a second longer than necessary. She didn’t deserve the luxury, not with Ben still in the hospital.

  She toweled her hair, well aware that it would turn into a mane of fluffy out-of-control curls, but she had no time for tedious styling. She tossed on her clothes and grabbed her purse.

  Resisting the urge to remind Max not to drop potato chips all over her carpet, she left him with his feet on the coffee table, watching Nascar races on TV. He grunted something like a goodbye as she left, and it warmed her, reminding her of old times.

  On the drive to the hospital, she flicked the radio on and off repeatedly, barely realizing it. Her scattered thoughts were as nervous as her fingers. She hadn’t taken time to eat, and her empty stomach twisted in on itself, churning and grumbling queasily.

  Once in the hospital, she stood outside Ben’s door, her heart pounding. She tucked her hair behind her ears, but it immediately sprang free. Hearing voices inside the room, she gave a light knock.

  “Come in,” called a soft voice. Ben’s mom, Mrs. Jorgensen.

  Charlene eased open the door to see Ben’s family still gathered around his bed. From the selective glimpses she managed, he still didn’t look good. He lay immobile, bandaged, and hooked up to IVs. Still not awake. She stepped inside and closed the door gently. “How is he?”

  Mrs. Jorgensen descended on her with a hug. The woman’s thin, tall frame draped her heavily as she wept.

  Mr. Jorgensen watched. He looked like a shorter, more time-weary version of Ben, but his voice was much gruffer. “If he doesn’t wake up soon . . .” He cleared his throat, like there was more to say, but he didn’t want to.

  Lucy, Ben’s twelve-year-old sister, stepped forward, her pixie-like face grave. “He might never wake up. And if he does, he might never walk again.” Her mouth crushed into an angry knot.

  Mrs. Jorgenson shed a few more tears on Charlene’s shoulder, then led her to Ben’s side. “We’re not giving up,” she quavered. “We have him on the prayer list; the whole church is praying for him. We’ve been praying Rosaries by his side, nonstop. It’s good for him to hear our voices.” She sniffed, straightened her posture, and wiped her eyes. “Thanks for coming, Charlene.”

  Still trying to process the terrible news, Charlene heard herself say, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come yesterday—”

  “No, we knew you couldn’t. We heard about what happened.”

  Of course. Charlene frowned. “Someone set me up.”

  Silence stretched until Mr. Jorgensen said, “Why in the world would anyone do that to you? You’re such a nice person. I can’t believe it.”

  Well, it was believe t
hat, or believe her guilty.

  “We’ll pray for you,” Mr. Jorgensen assured her. “And we can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”

  All I’ve done? If they only knew.

  Charlene swallowed, forcing down a huge lump. She owed Ben’s family the full story—the fact that she was responsible for his fall. Guilt settled on her. Guilt, and dread at the thought of confessing. It would only be worse the longer she waited. The Jorgensens had always been unconditionally welcoming to her, and this was how she repaid them?

  “I haven’t done enough,” she whispered, trying to work up her courage.

  “Talk to him, Charlene,” Mrs. Jorgensen urged. “I’m sure he’s just waiting to hear your voice.”

  She’s hoping he’ll magically wake up, like in a fairytale. Charlene faced him.

  “Talk to him, please,” Mrs. Jorgensen repeated, clasping her hands to her breast.

  Charlene knew it shouldn’t matter, but she felt put on the spot, unnerved by everyone listening. She didn’t know what to say, yet she had so much to say. She lowered herself slowly into a bedside chair, to buy a moment.

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned in. “I’m sorry, Ben.” Could he really hear her? “This shouldn’t have happened. But you’re strong, you’ll get through this. We’re here for you, and we’re all praying for you, and . . .” Her mind fished for more.

  “Tell him you love him, sweetie.”

  A hot flush swept Charlene’s face. “I love you, Ben.” I love you. Don’t you remember . . .

  And everyone faded away except for him. In her mind, she saw him as he had been. Strong and unbreakable. A firefighter.

  Her hero . . .

  He opened the door to her at the small number two Woodfield Fire Station. Since he was the only member of the paid-on-call crew who didn’t live within a couple blocks of the station, he was alone as usual on his twelve hour shift. He’d asked her to stop by, promising a tour and pizza.

  She felt incredibly special to have the attention of this handsome firefighter all to herself as he took her through the small lounge, kitchen, office, then into the garage, which he explained was called a bay. It housed the engine and ambulance and smelled slightly of rubber and mop water. Yellow exhaust hoses hung from the ceiling like long tubular accordions. Open lockers lined one wall, turnout gear hanging ready. Boots stood encased in bulky bunker pants so the firefighters could jump into them quickly—anything to improve response time, when seconds made the difference between life and death.