“Well you should have. I slept way too long without turning over. Look at me, I’m baked.” The front half of her fair skin had indeed turned a painful pink shade.
Clay’s face flashed concern and regret. “Let’s get you out of the sun. Want to head back home?”
Brook glanced at Charlene and nodded. Clay draped a gentle arm around Brook, careful of the sunburn, and she turned with him to walk back to the towels and cooler.
They packed up, then trudged up the hill. Charlene lagged behind. At the crest of the sandy hill, at the last possible point, she turned for one last view of the beach, emblazing a mental picture to remember the day by.
* * *
The trailer was a sweatbox this time of year. Worse than the hole. Even with thick foliage keeping the sun off, the interior still baked. He spent as much time out of it as possible. Wearing camouflage, gun ready, Nails roamed the woods.
His thoughts roamed, too. Too freely. This was the time of year for lame picnics and potlucks, like the ones the Callaghans had hauled him to. As if he could ever make friends with any of those churchgoing pansies.
He’d gotten out of one of the picnics by pretending to be sick. So easy. He remembered how it felt to be sixteen and finally have that great big house to himself.
It was all he’d wanted from the start . . .
Finally free to search, he found it, like he knew he would: a fat stack of money stashed in the back of a drawer, such a predictable location. Gleefully, he began counting the bills.
“What are you doing?” The voice froze his grasping fingers.
He looked up to see Mr. Callaghan’s disapproving face in the doorway.
“What’s it look like?” Lance sneered, masking an unexpected spike of shame and fear. He braced himself. He was big, but Mr. Callaghan was bigger—and stalking toward him with tensed muscles, clenched fists.
Gripping the cash, Lance stretched taller and stood his ground, half expecting a blow. His gaze flicked to Mr. Callaghan’s leather belt. The heavy buckle. Maybe he’d slide the belt off and go at him like the last foster dad who’d caught him stealing. “Think you’re so tough? Not so tough now.” He sliced the memory away.
Mr. Callaghan crossed his arms and eyed the cash. “Put it back.”
“Make me.” He bared his teeth.
Mr. Callaghan studied him a long time, making him sweat. “It’s not your money, Lance.” He held out his hand.
“I need it.” I took it. That makes it mine. He should have pocketed it right then and bolted.
“Haven’t we treated you well and given you everything you need?” Mr. Callaghan’s lips pressed tight with disappointment.
He scowled and looked away. “Go ahead, call the cops.”
“That’s not what you want, Lance.”
The stupid man had no clue what he wanted. He swallowed as Mr. Callaghan pried the money from his grasp.
“We can work this out.” Mr. Callaghan put a hand on his shoulder, making him stiffen.
“Don’t touch me.” He shook the hand off and stepped back, breathing heavily.
Mr. Callaghan nodded. “We’re going to take a ride.”
“No.” He backed away.
Mr. Callaghan reached for him again.
Anger flashed, and Lance swung his fists.
Before he could make contact, Mr. Callaghan seized his wrists and turned his arms behind him, twisting him so he faced the corner.
It didn’t hurt until he started to struggle. He hated being captured. Like an animal. “Get off me!”
Still clamping his wrists with one hand, Mr. Callaghan brought his other arm around him, pinning his arms, pressing his chest. “Hey, hey. Settle down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Lance swore and kicked backwards.
“You have to learn you can’t just swing out when you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.” Lance seethed. He willed his muscles to burst him free.
The hold tightened. “If you don’t learn to control your anger, it’ll end up controlling you.”
Lance writhed and twisted, turning wild with panic. “Get your hands off me. I’ll kill you!” He wanted to. With everything in him, he wanted to see the man dead. If he only had a gun . . .
“When you’re done with the temper tantrum,” Mr. Callaghan said calmly, “we can go downstairs.”
Cursing the man, Lance fought desperately, but he only wore himself out. Heart hammering, he finally slackened.
“Good.” Mr. Callaghan angled him to the door. “Let’s walk.”
Jaw set, Lance trudged from the room with Mr. Callaghan still pinning his wrists. Grudgingly, he stalked down the stairs, his face hot. He was glad the Callaghan kids weren’t home to see him like this. Especially Beth.
In the garage, Mr. Callaghan released him at the passenger side of his truck. “Get in.”
Glaring, Lance slumped onto the seat.
Mr. Callaghan climbed in and turned on the engine. “Seatbelt.”
Lance’s nostrils flared. The guy thought he was a baby.
Mr. Callaghan’s brows rose. “Do it, or I’ll put it on for you.”
Hell. Lance yanked it on.
* * *
“You sound happy,” Ben said that night after Charlene recounted her day over the phone.
“I am. It was so nice to have a day off, and the beach was beautiful.”
“So you said you went with your roommate?”
“Right, Brook. She had a good time, except she got sunburned.”
“Anyone else?”
“Anyone else get sunburned?”
“No, was there anyone else at the beach with you besides Brook?”
“Well, sure . . . We saw a few other people there.”
“You’re dodging the question, Charlene.” Ben muttered something she couldn’t make out. Then he said, loud and clear, “He was there, wasn’t he?”
She perched on the corner of her bed and released her breath. “If you mean Clay, then yes, but—”
“Why were you hiding it? You said there’s nothing going on between you.”
“Because there’s not. I just knew if I told you, you’d act exactly this way. Quit it, Ben. Quit being jealous of nothing.” Remembering Brook was in the next room, she lowered her voice. “I told you he’s dating Brook. She invited him along, that’s all.”
Her gaze brushed over his little wood carving, which she’d set on her dresser.
“You’d tell me if he made a move on you, right?” Ben persisted, “Because wheelchair or not, I’d be there in a second to kick his—”
“Ben,” she cut in sharply, “enough. This is getting really old. Me and Clay, we’re just friends. Probably not even that.”
“You believe that? Do you have any idea how beautiful and amazing you are? I’m not the only one who sees it.”
“Beautiful and amazing? What about trustworthy? That would mean a lot more. Trust me, so you can stop worrying about nothing.”
“Nothing? What if I told you I was hanging out with some girl and just calling her a friend? Would you be okay with that?”
“Are you?” She thought of Kate.
“No. That’s not the point. I could if I wanted, but I don’t. And that’s the difference. You should honor that.”
She paused to consider his reasoning. Should she promise to avoid Clay at all costs? To ease Ben’s mind? Was that the right thing to do? Somehow, that seemed like such an awful lot to ask. She moved her foot back and forth, skimming the carpet with her toes. “I hardly have any friends here.”
“You don’t need any friends there. Come back here with me. I’ll be the best friend you ever had, and more.” Waiting a few heartbeats, he added, “You got this sudden day off of work . . . why didn’t you come here? We could have spent it together.” He cleared his throat. “That kind of hurts, Charlene. Did I even cross your mind?”
Her mouth fell open. She’d enjoyed a light, happy mood at the start of the call, and now she felt like slime. Wh
at kind of fiancée was she? “I’m sorry, Ben.”
“Is it because I’m no fun? Because I can’t do as much anymore? Is that it? Because—”
“No, of course not! And that’s not true. You can do plenty—”
“I can’t swim.”
“You can still go to the beach. You can still enjoy the water.” She put a hand to her forehead, feeling a little frantic. “Look, Ben. The Fourth of July is almost here. I’m driving back and we’re going to spend the whole day together, I promise. We’ll have a picnic, watch the parade, see the fireworks—we’ll have the best day ever. How does that sound? Is it a date?”
He took his time, but at last he agreed, “Okay, it’s a date.”
After they hung up, she let out a long breath. Their relationship hadn’t been this tricky back when she saw him almost every day. This weekly thing just wasn’t cutting it.
Her phone chimed, and she almost didn’t pick up. Then she saw it was Max, so she answered.
“Hey, Char. Found the perfect girl for me yet?”
She rolled her eyes. “Working on it. What have you been up to?”
He shared his schedule of rehearsals and shows, so hectic it made her shudder, then mentioned a new trick he planned to debut in February.
The sucker punch came out of nowhere. “You called off your engagement yet?”
Not what she needed to hear tonight. Her defenses rose, sharp and rigid, and her words came out vicious. “I’ll tell you when that’ll happen. When I find your nonexistent dream girl.” She hung up. The phone trembled in her hand a moment before she dropped it.
Almost immediately, it beeped, signaling a text.
Knowing she’d regret it, she glanced at the message from Max: Geez, someone’s sensitive.
Her teeth perched on edge and she clunked the phone onto her nightstand. And someone needs to mind their own business, she thought as she went to get ready for bed.
On her way back from the bathroom, Brook called her into her room. She began lamenting her sunburn, then asked, “Did you get burned at all? Your face looked kind of red when you came back from your walk.”
Charlene touched her cheeks. “I should have used sunscreen.” She ran a finger over the bridge of her nose. “I’m sure I’ll have a new batch of freckles by tomorrow,” she added ruefully.
“So did you and Clay talk much on your walk?”
“Oh, you know Clay. He’s not much of a talker.”
The way Brook stared, waiting, made her uncomfortable. She had to give her something. “He talked a little about wood carving.”
Brook turned slightly, then gently slid something across her dresser. A small wooden angel came into view. Her fingers traced the wings, which appeared feather-soft, even though they couldn’t be. “He’s very talented. Look what he carved for me.”
Charlene peered closer. The detail was amazing. This had to have taken much longer to make than the tiny bench. In fact, it made her token carving look like scrapwood in comparison.
“That’s really something,” Charlene said. The drape of the angel’s robe looked soft and natural. The angel’s expression was simple, yet serene. Peering closer, she noticed a heart carved into the palms of the angel’s hands.
Brook lifted the figure and held it close to her stomach, in a sheltering position. “Do you like him, Charlene?”
Her brows pushed together. “What do you mean? Do I like who?”
“Clay.”
The answer should be easy, but she sensed it was a loaded question. “Yes, I like him,” she said slowly. “He’s a nice enough guy.”
Brook gave her a dissatisfied, steely look. “You know what I mean. Do you have feelings for him?”
Alarmed, she took a step back. “No, definitely not. He’s your boyfriend, Brook. Why would you ask me that?”
“Precisely because he is my boyfriend. I need to make sure you don’t forget that.”
“We’re barely friends.” She shook her head. “Believe me, most of the time, I think he hardly tolerates me.”
Brook appeared doubtful. “I don’t know. Sometimes he looks at you . . . and you look at him a certain way . . .”
He did? She did? No, it was all in Brook’s head. Like Ben, she was simply prone to jealousy.
A weariness descended over Charlene. What was it with people tonight? Was the unbearable summer heat getting to everyone and melting their minds? “Don’t you know I already have a boyfriend in Woodfield? Actually, he’s my fiancé. I’m engaged.”
“Really? And how would I know that? You never said anything. Why didn’t you tell me?” Brook narrowed her eyes at her left hand. “And why aren’t you wearing a ring?”
“It got lost. Long story. But it’s being replaced. Trust me, I’m engaged.” She clasped her left hand to cover her ring finger scar before Brook peered closer and asked about that. Charlene rubbed the thin raised ridge, as if she could smooth it away.
“Does Clay know you’re engaged?”
“Yes. Brook, please, don’t worry. Clay and me—that’s just ridiculous. Wouldn’t happen in a million years.” She forced a laugh for Brook’s benefit, though she felt deflated, run over by interrogations. Twice in one night was too much to deal with.
After a little more reassurance, she managed to extricate herself from Brook’s room and turn in to bed. While she may have appeased Brook, Charlene was sure Brook wouldn’t ever include her in anymore outings with Clay.
Ben would certainly be happy about that.
* * *
Secrets. Deception. Lies. He owed her more than that. So much more. Nothing was going right lately. She felt him slipping so far away from her.
Torturing herself, she recalled the way he had looked at the girl. Hungry. Wanting. The way he should look at her.
He had once.
He would again.
I can’t lose him. He belongs to me. She touched her belly. To us.
Smiling fake smiles at customers, she brainstormed as she worked. All the while, her blood curdled. The situation was more serious than she’d thought. So much was at stake.
Only one thing to do.
Time to step up my game.
Time to play hardball.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The grass was long. He’d ventured to the edge of the woods and stared out at the field, the vast openness of it, and knew he had to turn back, back into the covering of trees and leaves. But he stared at the rippling blades, something seizing inside. Staring, staring, like that day long ago . . .
He stared out the truck window and didn’t really care where Mr. Callaghan was taking him. Dumping him back in the system, no doubt, to be someone else’s problem. About time.
During the drive, Mr. Callaghan shook his head and preached about honesty, trust, and morality, all because of the money he’d tried to swipe. “If you don’t start making better choices, Lance, you’re going to regret it.”
Lance rolled his eyes and didn’t acknowledge him. The only thing he regretted was getting in the truck with this sermonizer.
At last, Mr. Callaghan killed the motor at the Catholic Church, which sat on at least two acres of land.
Lance snorted. Was this the lame plan? Drag him to confession? Like that’d solve anything. The naïve fool. Lance jumped out and spat on the shaggy grass. “I’m not talking to no priest.”
“So don’t. I’m not asking you to.” Mr. Callaghan crossed the lawn. He unlocked a shed and wheeled out a push mower. Stepping away from it, he glanced at his watch, then at Lance, expectation written all over his face. “Better get started.”
Lance’s jaw slackened as he surveyed the huge lot. What? Cut all this by hand, in this heat? The guy was cracked.
Mr. Callaghan angled him a steady, stern gaze. “Actions have consequences, Lance.” The man’s hands landed on his hips. “You’re not setting foot back in my house unless you can own your mistakes. Accept the consequences and learn from them. Can you do that, Lance? Can you be a man?”
Again, Lance wanted to let his fists fly. Why not make the fool get rid of him now? If not, it would only be a matter of time. He swore.
Mr. Callaghan started the lawnmower, and the roar drowned out the curses. The man stepped to the side and waited, brows raised.
Lance crossed his arms and glared, channeling hatred to his eyes.
Mr. Callaghan shook his head and climbed back in his truck. The abandoned mower conked out. The truck engine burst on. Tires rolled.
Lance’s chest jolted. The man really would leave him in this scorching heat, near the stupid church. Walking back to the house would be as grueling and humiliating as cutting the grass.
With another curse, he grabbed the mower, yanked the cord, and shoved it forward.
From his comfortable air-conditioned seat, Mr. Callaghan watched him like a slave driver. Lance plodded over the land in a slow grueling pattern of endless repetition.
Those hours in the burning sun were the longest and hardest he ever worked in his life. Sweat poured from him, soaking his shirt front and back, making the soppy fabric cling to him.
At the end of it all, after he thrust the mower back into the shed and wiped the sweat from his eyes, Mr. Callaghan approached him and nodded. “Good job, son.”
Son. His heart almost skipped a beat. All the profanity he’d been about to let loose died in his throat.
He stared mutely as Mr. Callaghan counted out a few bills, then pressed them into his damp hand. “That’s all yours,” the man said, as if it was a lot. It was nothing. Not near as much as he’d tried to take. Mr. Callaghan smiled. “You earned it with honest work. How does that feel?”
Lance’s fingers closed over the money and squeezed. For the first time, he could almost imagine what having a father might feel like. His tongue touched the corner of his lip, tasted the salt of sweat. For the first time, he thought maybe he could give up stealing. Maybe . . .
Maybe the sun had fried his brains.
“Lance?”
He shoved the cash in his pocket and scowled.
Mr. Callaghan opened the truck door. “Come on, let’s go home.”
* * *
Sam left on another delivery, and it was just Clay and Charlene and country music in the woodshop, till the phone rang. She picked it up. “Sam’s Custom Carpentry, how may I help you?”
After the Thaw Page 22