After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  “Oh.”

  “It depends how you read into it.”

  Hmm, nope. Charlene shook her head. No reading required.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Brook added.

  Charlene yawned. “I’m going to get ready for bed.”

  Brook looked a little sheepish, like she regretted revealing Clay’s words. “Wait, let me give you his number so you have it in case you need it.”

  Back to this, were they? “No thanks, I won’t need it.”

  “You can’t be sure,” Brook insisted. “You’re working together. You’ve gotta have your employer’s number.”

  “Actually, Sam’s my employer, and I have his number. That’s really all I—”

  “Oh what’s the big deal?” Brook crossed to Charlene’s chair and sat on the armrest. “Just put it in so you’ve got it if you need it. What if they’re both out delivering orders and a customer has a question and—”

  “All right. Fine.” Charlene pulled out her phone. While Brook watched and recited the number, she obligingly entered and saved it. Charlene noticed she had a missed call and message from Ben. Now that he was settled in the rehab center, he was probably asking when she was coming to visit.

  Staring at her phone, she headed to her room. She hadn’t realized Brook had already wandered away till a burst of music hit her. Not meaning to, Charlene paused at Brook’s open door, caught by the melody of Blake Shelton’s “Mine Would Be You,” remembering last hearing the song as she tried to work up the nerve to talk to Clay in the woodshop. The day of Lance.

  “Need something?” Brook looked up from where she lay sprawled on her yellow and blue paisley bed.

  “No.” Charlene gave a weak smile. “I just . . . like that song.” She did?

  “Me too.” Brook’s expression turned dreamy. “It makes me think of Clay.”

  “Oh?” Would she elaborate? Did she want her to?

  Brook beamed and motioned her into her room, obviously bursting to share.

  Charlene sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and noticed a silver-framed photograph of Brook and Clay on the nightstand. He was actually smiling.

  “It’s kinda like our song.” Brook barely lowered the volume. “It was playing when we first met.”

  “When was that?”

  Brook waved a hand. “Back in spring.”

  Charlene’s eyebrows quirked. How long back? We’re still in spring.

  “I was having a really bad day. Like, the worst day ever.” Brook’s eyelids shielded her gaze. “My boyfriend had recently broken up with me, and I was working, and nothing was going right. Customers were needy and rude, and I was falling way behind. I was stocking this big display of soup cans, and I touched one can wrong, and it all went tumbling down around me. I mean, big disaster, huge mess. So embarrassing.

  “Customers were gawking, my manager was barking at me to clean it up fast, and I looked around completely overwhelmed and pathetic and like I was about to lose it and fall apart, you know?”

  Charlene nodded sympathetically.

  “So I’m scrambling to pick up cans, and suddenly there’s this customer, this really nice guy who leaves his cart and starts helping me. He doesn’t even say anything, just starts picking up cans. That guy was Clay.”

  Brook eyed his picture and let out a long sigh. “That was how we met, stacking soup cans. And this song was playing. And everything started to turn around for me after that. Whenever he shopped, he’d say hi to me, and we’d talk. One evening when I got off of work, we just talked in the parking lot forever.”

  Clay talking forever? Charlene couldn’t picture that.

  “He bought me dinner. The next night, I made him dinner, and we’ve just been so happy ever since.”

  “That’s great.” Charlene smoothed the comforter and studied the paisley pattern while she sensed Brook studying her.

  “So what’s your story? How did you meet Clay?”

  “My story?” Charlene looked up, almost in alarm, and willed her heartbeat to slow. “Oh, it’s nothing near so . . . sweet. Or special.” She let out a monosyllable laugh. “In fact, it’s really not worth telling at all.” She tried to slide off the bed, but Brook hooked her with her arm and tugged her back.

  “Hey, no way. That’s not fair. It’s your turn, so spill it.”

  Panic pressed in. Charlene’s pulse skyrocketed. She’d been so successful lately at keeping everything stuffed and locked away. Ben knew her past, but he also knew not to bring it up. She could depend on him. He was her safe haven. She’d been away from him too long.

  “So?” Brook prodded. “Start at the beginning.”

  Sweat burst from Charlene’s pores. She didn’t want to remember it, relive it. But there Brook sat, staring at her, bright eyed and expectant. Charlene cleared her throat and took a deep breath. Brook probably already knew the basics, anyway, she rationalized. She would keep it very dry, simple, and brief.

  Get it over with.

  “It was more than four years ago.” I remember it like yesterday. She stared blankly at the wall, which slowly wavered and dissolved, morphing to black as her mind unearthed the petrified, crumbled bits of horror and pieced them back together. She shivered. “It was right after Christmas. My brother had been kidnapped—”

  Brook shot up to a full sitting position, eyes wide. “Seriously?”

  Charlene nodded.

  “Was he—I mean is he—”

  “He’s fine.” She waved away her concern. “It all turned out fine.” Fine? Debatable. Charlene jumped up. “Know what? It’s late. I’m turning in.”

  “What? No way. You can’t leave me hanging like that. That’s cruel.”

  Charlene headed for the door. Brook zipped in front and blocked the way. “I told you my story; you’ve gotta tell me yours. I won’t be able to sleep if you don’t.”

  I won’t be able to sleep if I do.

  “I’m not letting you go till you tell.” Brook spoke playfully, but icy fingers gripped Charlene’s heart and squeezed.

  “You said it all turned out fine, so come on. What’s the big deal?”

  Charlene backed up slowly, hit the bed, and plunked down.

  “You were telling me about your brother,” Brook prompted.

  “Right.” Charlene licked her lips. “I was looking for him and ended up lost in the woods. It was so cold, and snowing, and I was exhausted.”

  “And?” Brook urged.

  “And Clay was coming through the trees, back from ice fishing on a nearby lake. He let me warm up in his cabin. His family’s cabin,” she amended, rubbing her arms. “Then his brother showed up.”

  “Wait—what?” Brook cut in. “Clay has a brother?”

  Half-brother. “Had, not has.”

  “That’s terrible—”

  “It was . . . but it isn’t. I mean, he was a terrible man.” Terrible? Ha. So inadequate. It didn’t begin to describe . . . “It’s good that he’s gone.” She barely registered Brook’s shocked expression as she plunged on. “He was the kidnapper, and now he had me, too.”

  What am I doing? But still she went on, and the words felt like profanity spewing from her mouth.

  Brook sat at rapt attention. “How did you survive?”

  “Clay tried to help us, but . . .” She swallowed. “Abner tried to kill us all.”

  “He what?” Brook started to sputter another question, but Charlene didn’t want to hear it.

  Finish this. “We finally escaped. Clay helped us.” I can’t ever forget that. “But there was a trial, and he went to prison.”

  “What?” Brook gasped. “That’s not right! How could—”

  “He was convicted on accessory to assault.” She gripped the comforter fabric in her hot palms.

  “But how could—he couldn’t have—”

  “He held a video camera and filmed. As Abner . . . did this.” Charlene flipped her hand palm-up for Brook to see the pale, melted skin of her scar.

  Horror encircled Brook’s
gaping mouth.

  “It wasn’t like Clay wanted to film it. He had no choice. It’s hard to explain . . . you would have had to have been there—and the jury wasn’t. Thus the conviction.”

  “You didn’t testify against him?”

  “No, my brother and I both defended him, but the prosecution was relentless. The judge went light on the sentencing. Clay got twelve months and a day, but he’d already served eight of them while waiting for trial.” She paused, picturing him as she’d seen him in the courtroom the day of the verdict. “He seemed to take it really well. I think the worst part about it was he was cheated out of being with his mom when she was dying.”

  Charlene clamped her mouth shut.

  Silence wrapped around them, cinching Charlene tightly. So much for keeping the account short, simple, and boring.

  “Wow,” Brook said at last. “I had no idea . . .”

  Queasiness created an acidic pain in Charlene’s stomach. “But he must have told you some of this. Bits and pieces, at least . . .”

  “No, not a word.” Her face was shell-shocked. She would have a lot more questions when the shock wore off, but Charlene knew she’d already said too much.

  Way too much.

  Charlene’s head pounded; her thoughts screamed for escape. Her feet hit the floor. She said goodnight and fled to her own room, where she shut the door, locked it, and pressed her back to the wood. Slumping to the floor, she brought a fist to her lips, feeling like her mouth was the size of the Grand Canyon.

  * * *

  Charlene awoke from the clutches of a nightmare and lay perfectly still, waiting for her heart to slow. Mercifully, her mind blanked out the dream, but the fear remained. Blankets lay piled on her so heavily, she was slick with sweat, yet somehow a chill gnawed deep in her bones.

  Her night light threw beams and shadows. Morning light fingered her window shade. Good. Night was over. She shoved the blankets off.

  She pulled her phone from her nightstand and opened her contacts. Ben topped the list. Her scrolling finger skipped over Max, then hovered over Clay’s name, knowing she should delete him, but she didn’t. After a few seconds, she moved to Sam’s name and called to ask for the day off. He granted her request with a “Sure thing” and hung up.

  An hour later, she was on a bus back to Woodfield to see Ben at last. She called him and was surprised to learn she didn’t have to go to the rehab center after all.

  “What, they let you go already?”

  “No, but it’s not a prison,” he joked.

  She didn’t respond.

  “My dad’s picking me up for the day. I pulled some strings with my charm.”

  Sure, she pictured his smile that could move mountains.

  In town, she scanned the grocery store floral department, wanting to buy him something but feeling at a loss. None of the flowers looked manly enough for Ben, but what had she expected? Settling for a leafy ivy in a plastic pot, she decided to skip inserting the little “get well” card, as Ben had told her he was sick to death of being told to “get well.”

  “Doesn’t anyone get it? Getting well isn’t in my control, but I keep getting told to do it.” Those had been his words a few days ago at the tail end of an unusually cranky phone conversation.

  Clasping the small pot, she rounded an aisle and came face-to- face with Detective Green. He didn’t look pleased. “The contact number you gave me was no good.”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry, I had to get a new phone and didn’t realize—”

  “I need you to come to the station for questioning. Don’t worry, it’s just a routine follow-up.”

  Inwardly, she groaned, but nodded. She moved mechanically through the checkout lane. Blocking the fire from her mind hadn’t made the mess go away.

  At the station, she answered questions and was informed that the fire marshal had concluded that the condo blaze had indeed been the result of arson. No surprise there.

  Drained from the questioning, she stepped stiffly out of the station.

  * * *

  Nails licked his thumb and counted what he had left of his cash. The rich smell of wealth filled his nostrils. He imagined the stacks upon stacks just sitting in the old man’s safe. He couldn’t wait.

  But he would. He could be patient, very patient.

  He wouldn’t emerge while he was still big news. Still being hunted. Time would dull the efforts, lessen the resources. The heat would die, as it always did.

  He closed his fingers over a cluster of twenties. An unwanted memory, decades old, wormed its way in. Crisp green bills pressed into his sweaty, tired hands.

  “That’s all yours. You earned it with honest work. How does that feel?”

  He threw the cash on the table and stood up, backing away, cursing Mr. Callaghan and his self-righteous words. The hypocrite. Spouting platitudes. Thinking he could make a difference. Could change him.

  Memories closing in, his back hit the trailer wall. Nowhere to go. The tight quarters taunted, too much like a cell. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then turned and kicked the wall.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charlene arrived at Ben’s house empty-handed. She’d forgotten the ivy plant at the police station and wasn’t about to go back for it. She heaved a deep breath of the warm grass-scented air and tried to relax, to send her worries away like dandelion fluff on a breeze.

  Across the street, a little boy blew iridescent bubbles into the wind. The bubbles came out in a stream, like a string of glass beads and then, pop, pop, pop, they were gone.

  Turning back to Ben’s door, she smoothed her expression. Just in time, too. The red door opened and her face registered surprise when she saw Ben had opened it, from a wheelchair.

  It was so good to see him, and yet, to see him like this broke her heart. “Oh, Ben.”

  He glided back to let her in. She stepped inside.

  He ran his hand over a wheel. “Still getting the hang of it, but it beats lying in bed.”

  “It’s an improvement,” she managed.

  He led her through the house and out to the back deck, into the spring breeze and sunshine. She wove her fingers together. “So how long do you think you’ll need the chair?”

  Ben’s attempt at a smile slipped away. “Long.” His gaze drifted from hers and out over the plowed field that backed up to his family’s yard.

  “But the therapy’s helping, right?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  She followed his gaze, knowing it ran over the highway and up the hills to a thick, newly green forest. He’d told her how he’d grown up hiking those woods, climbing those trees, scouting for animals, even camping. It pierced her to imagine he was thinking of all he might never do again. Culpability washed over her in an all-consuming wave. Her only hope for getting over the guilt would be if he could actually walk again someday. Please, God. Please.

  “Hey, you cut your hair.” He said it as if he’d only just noticed, but she knew it was a purposeful change of subject. “Wow. That’s unexpected. What made you do that?”

  “I . . . I just couldn’t help it. It was time for a change.” Self-conscious, she raised a hand to her short curls. “I know, it’s really different, but it’ll grow back.”

  “In time for our wedding?”

  She blinked.

  “Kidding, Charlene. It looks pretty, even kind of wild and spunky. It’s a good look for you.”

  She gave a tiny smile and finally settled onto a plastic chair. They moved on to talk about different, unimportant, safe things, and it felt nice to relax and forget her troubles . . . and then she noticed Ben’s inert legs, and the obtuse wheelchair. Like a big, bold sign declaring, You did this.

  Looking away, she watched a swallow dip and dive, then twirl and swoop, performing a little airshow before it sailed out of sight.

  They went over some wedding plans. “Sure makes it difficult now that you’re living so far away. I still don’t get it. Can’t you reconsider moving back?” Ben tu
rned his lake-blue eyes pleadingly on her, and she swallowed; this was the look she’d been able to avoid on the phone. Breaking eye contact, she studied the deck boards at her feet, thinking they needed a new coat of weatherproof sealant.

  “Charlene?”

  “It’s better this way.”

  “Really? How is it better? How is it possibly better in any way, shape, or form?” He grabbed her hands and brought them to his chest. “I need you so much nearer. I thought you were too far before, when you were minutes away, and now . . . Come on, Charlene. Move back.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? It’s not like you have anything holding you there.”

  “I have a job. Here, they fired me.”

  “You’ll easily find another job. You’re smart and talented.”

  “I have an apartment.”

  “So? You can break a lease. You can stay here at my parents’, like we talked about. The guest room’s all ready. Just say the word.”

  “The people in this town . . .”

  “Who cares? They don’t matter.”

  “It matters when they threaten me,” she mumbled.

  She wasn’t sure if Ben caught her words, but he said, “I’ll protect you. Don’t you know that? Let me, please.” He squeezed her hands. “Move back.”

  She sighed. “Not yet, Ben. Just, not yet . . .”

  He nodded. Slowly, he released her hands. She almost didn’t hear him say, “I wish I understood why.”

  She had to give him more. “I just came from the police station. The fire that destroyed my condo . . .” She met his eyes. “It was arson.”

  Color drained from his face. “They’re sure?”

  “They said the fire started in multiple spots, and they found traces of gasoline in the living room.”

  He seemed to absorb that. For once, he had no comeback.

  “I feel safe in Creekside. It’s a nice town,” she added feebly. “Look, I can show you a few pictures . . . the park, the library, the church . . .” She fished out her phone and began bringing up photos.

  Ben shook his head. “No thanks.”

  Deflated, she set her phone on the picnic table and studied her hands. Her fingers were already turning slightly rough and calloused from working. She made a mental note to use hand lotion.