When she spoke, warmth even radiated from her words. “I’m so glad you’re here, Lance. So glad.” She tipped her innocent face up at him. “You’re special, and someday you’re going to do great things.” She sighed dreamily. “I just know it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Charlene entered the apartment to find Brook had already shut herself in her bedroom for the evening. When she heard low weeping, she tapped on Brook’s door. Brook didn’t answer, merely muffled her cries, perhaps with a pillow.
Clay will get over it, Charlene wanted to tell her. He’ll cool down and eventually forgive us all. In her room, Charlene ran her fingers over the little bench wood carving. I know him . . . he will.
The next morning, and the morning after that, he still hadn’t come back. From the little that Charlene glimpsed of her, Brook looked drained, frail, and despondent. Sam threw himself into his work with a deep furrow in his brow. Even more silent than usual, he pushed himself to do too much, nowhere near stopping when Charlene left at the end of the workday.
On Friday, she climbed in her car and headed up north, into the land of thick pine woods and countless lakes.
Turning off the highway, she drove backroads of increasingly rustic appearance, till at last a windy path through an overhanging, shadowy forest led her to a weed-choked gravel drive. She rumbled up it slowly, her car bumping and rocking till she cut the engine.
For a long moment, she simply sat, unmoving. Then she lifted her chin and faced the nightmare-infested cabin of horrors from her dark past. I must be crazy. Even in the warm sunshine, it was a somber, dingy sight.
But sure enough, her hunch had been right. There, off to the left, Clay’s mud spattered truck sat in the shade.
Daisy heads bobbed randomly between long grasses. She stepped out into the itchy overgrowth. Trees and leaves swooshed and sang an ominous, breathy ballad. Weeds grew up through the gaps of the wooden porch steps, tickling her ankles as she climbed.
The sagging porch creaked and her nerves sizzled. Shadows sashayed and fell on her with no apology, giving the sense of an almost physical, unwelcome touch. With a shake of her shoulders, she approached the cabin window.
Boards nailed over the inside barred even a glimpse of the interior. She rapped on the door, but no one answered. “Clay? Are you in there?” Her hand reached for the doorknob, shivered, and fell back to her side.
I can’t do it.
She put her mouth near the door. “Clay?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned and trudged down the steps. If he wasn’t in the cabin, there was another, perhaps more likely, place to look. She hiked down the overgrown driveway onto the desolate dirt road and followed rutted curves to the lake.
Wet grass gave way to pebbles and mud, then a slimy little shore. No welcoming sand here. Fat flies buzzed. An old canoe lay tipped over on the nearby slope. She walked out onto a rickety pier, which swayed questionably.
At the end of it, she shaded her eyes and peered over the glimmering water. She couldn’t find a single boat on the lake. Then off to the left, in a southern inlet, she spotted an aluminum boat. She squinted and saw a fisherman. Even from this distance, she was sure it was Clay.
She sat down cross-legged on the pier, resigned to waiting out his return. Water lapped a lulling rhythm beneath her. The sun beat down and the weedy lake began to tempt her with cool relief. She dipped her fingers in the water, but this lake . . . it was probably full of huge monster fish, ready and waiting to nibble her. She pulled her fingers out.
She’d been in this lake once in her life, and that one frigid time was more than enough. The water masqueraded as a completely different lake in summer. She scanned the dark expanse, an unpleasant murky green.
Tired of waiting, she cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered, “Clay!” Her voice echoed, and while his head turned, he made no move to acknowledge her or move his boat closer.
He’s ignoring me.
With a huff, she walked over to the beached canoe and assessed it, hands on her hips. As long as it wasn’t too heavy . . .
She tipped it right-side up and found a paddle beneath it, then dragged the canoe over stones and muck to the water. Her flip-flops sank in gunk as she stepped into the shallows. Squishy, sucking mud curled her toes.
When the canoe no longer touched bottom, she climbed inside and started paddling.
Moving away from the shore was tricky. She’d never navigated a canoe before, and steering was all trial and error as she attempted to aim for Clay’s boat. She paddled on one side, then quickly switched to the other. In this way she zigzagged tediously over the water. But at least her palms were used to hard work and didn’t blister.
She finally came close enough to see Clay’s face, shaded under the bill of a camouflage ball cap. He didn’t turn to look at her, even as she splish-splashed clumsily beside him.
“So much for fishing.” He reeled in his line with a whirring sound. Her eyes followed the movement of his tan, muscular arms.
He tore a piece of lake weed from his hook. “You just about scared away all the fish in a two hundred yard radius.”
“Maybe we could talk, then,” she attempted.
“Nope.” He set his pole down, pushed his cap lower over his eyes, sat back with folded arms, and proceeded to disregard her.
She stared at his stubborn, stubbly chin. “Come on, Clay, don’t be like that. Give me a chance.” A distant loon warble was the only response.
Her canoe drifted quietly for a few minutes, the current gradually gliding her away. She seized her paddle. Slicing the water, she brought her canoe as close as possible to the side of Clay’s vessel. The boats connected, and the bump made him thumb back his cap and glance up. The hat perched oddly, like it was about to fall off.
She set her paddle down and gripped the side of his boat. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Suit yourself.” His lips jammed together in a disapproving line and he looked away.
Her tense shoulders fell, remorse filling her. “I’m sorry about the letter. I didn’t want to mislead you, or lie to you. I was only keeping it safe until the time was right. I thought it would be better if you heard it from Sam, so he could explain his side.”
“I’m not interested in hearing his side of anything. He’s had years to tell me, and he never said a word.”
The canoe rocked ever so slightly. The breeze blew light and warm, but she almost shivered. “He planned to tell you, he really did.”
“So what.”
She waited, studying his surly face. “I can see him in you. Especially when you look like that.”
His scowl deepened.
“Yep, there it is.”
He grunted.
“Oh, that too. Definitely.”
The slightest glint escaped his sullen eyes. “Keep it up, and you’re gonna swim back.”
“Oh, and the threats. Just like Sam.” She closed her mouth. Maybe she’d gone too far.
He stayed silent, gazing in the general direction of the cabin, though they couldn’t see it through the clustered pines. She sensed his thoughts were long ago and far away.
She wracked her brains for the right words to cut through the standstill and bring his mind back. He really needed a friend right now, a friend who knew just what to say. As he had, for her.
And then she had it. “A wise man once told me, ‘Feeling sorry for yourself won’t get you anywhere but down.’”
He snorted. “How wise could he be if he didn’t have the sense to know his words would be thrown back in his face?”
“No, not thrown, Clay.” She softened her voice. “Never.”
He rubbed his forehead and eyed the bottom of his boat. “Thing is,” he said quietly, “I know Sam too well now. And he is a good guy. The kind I always wanted my dad to be.” He flicked open his tackle box, stared at the array of hooks and lures, then clunked it closed. “Why’d all those years have to be wasted? And how could my ma—” He grimaced.
/>
“Did you finally read the letter? Did it . . . help at all?”
His neck muscles moved. “It wasn’t enough,” he said dismissively. “Now the ma I thought I knew, she’s not the same person to me anymore.”
Hearing the hardness in his voice, Charlene couldn’t help rising to defend the woman she’d grown to love. “You mean, she wasn’t perfect.”
His brows plowed together. “You can’t understand.”
“I do.” Her gaze glimpsed a hawk sailing high above, cutting clean arcs through the air. “Your ideal image of her is shattered.” She leaned forward, her grasp on the side of his boat tightening. “It doesn’t change her love for you. Or,” she hesitated, “her love of God. If He could forgive her . . . how can you not?”
Clay angled away from her.
“And Sam,” she went on, surprising herself. “It was only because he cares so much, that he didn’t tell you sooner. He just didn’t know how.”
Clay shoved his fishing rod to the bottom of the boat. “I can’t change how I think of him. He’s Sam, not my dad.”
“Oh Clay, he’s not going to care what you call him. Either way, he’s the only parent you have left. And that’s something. More than you thought you had. It’s like having time back that you thought you never could.” She met his eyes with a plea. “Don’t throw that away.”
“He’s too late. Twenty-five years too late. I don’t need him anymore.”
Her gaze trailed off, and she found herself noticing Clay’s hands. The bandages had shifted, and she focused on a dark inkiness that was partially revealed. If she wasn’t mistaken, it looked like the edges of a tattoo.
Catching her gaze, he drew his hands up. He readjusted and tightened the bandages roughly so that, once again, she saw nothing.
His last words ran through her mind, sorrow twinging her soul. “It’s not weakness to need someone,” she said softly. Overhead, she noticed clouds gathering in dark bunches to the west. “And maybe . . . maybe he needs you.”
“How’d you know where to find me?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out.” Her hands growing tired, she repositioned her hold on his boat. “I remembered you came here before . . . to get away, to fish . . . And the cabin’s all yours now.” She suddenly registered the shadows under his bloodshot eyes. “You’ve been sleeping there, haven’t you? Clay, that’s horrible.” When she thought of all the twisted memories . . . “How could you?”
His shoulder hitched. “It’s just a place. A place to crash.” He worked his jaw. “I’m gonna sell it, though.”
“Honestly?” Her heart palpitated. “Do you really think anyone would buy it?”
“Sure, it’s got this lake access. I may have to take less because of the creep factor now, but I’ll get something. Then I’ll use the money to buy some land and build my own place.”
“Where?” Concern washed over her.
“I was thinking the outskirts of Creekside.” A muscle near his eye twitched. “That was my plan, anyway, before I found out about Sam. I don’t know if I can keep working for him.”
“You can.” Sunlight faded. “Of course you can. He loves you, you know. Like a dad. He’s thought of you like a son for years. I can tell. You can tell, too, I bet . . . if you’d just stop and think about it.”
His face hardened.
“You need to come back and talk to him. And Brook.” She focused on a tattered leaf floating in the grimy water at the bottom of his boat. “You shouldn’t have left like that.” Especially with Brook in her condition. But did he know? She gave herself a little shake. Not my place. Not my business. Head bowed, she watched him through her lashes.
“I know,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his head. “That wasn’t right.”
“They’re both worried about you. You need to come back.”
He gave a nod.
At that moment she became aware that clouds had overtaken the sky and were darkening heavily. “We’d better head back before it rains.” She released her hold on his boat, creating an immediate gap between them.
He assessed the sky. “You won’t make it in time.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” She picked up her paddle.
He shook his head. “Climb in. I’ll give you a ride back.” He reached out and gripped the edge of her canoe, bringing it flush against his boat. “Be careful. Go slow.”
“Okay.” She eased up off her seat, then clambered over the edge gracelessly and plunked, relieved, onto a metal bench. “But the canoe. We can’t just leave it floating out here.”
“I’ve got it.” Using a rope, he tied the canoe to the rear of his boat. Then he cranked the motor and aimed for the dock. They chugged noisily over the lake, skimming and bouncing, reaching the pier just as the rain crashed down, instantly drenching them.
Clay secured the boat with a swift knot and then helped her out. Next, he hefted the canoe and tipped it over on the shore. Together they dashed for the little road.
The scent of rain on hot dirt filled her nose. Silver beams of rain sliced down, pulverizing the ground and stirring up mud. They ran all the way to the cabin porch and stood under the narrow overhang, watching rain pour, battering the tall grass and crushing the bright daisies. Thunder cracked, shaking the air.
Clay opened the cabin door. “Come on, let’s get out of this.” He stepped in without a second thought, while she stepped back with an overpowering aversion, as if she saw evil leaking from the interior in plumes of black smoke.
In her mind’s eye, she did.
Understanding dawned on Clay’s face. Still holding the door open, he stepped back out beside her.
She clutched her fingers and tried to work up courage. The last time she’d entered this cabin, she’d almost lost her life. So long ago. Forget it. She sipped short breaths and willed her muscles to relax.
“Hey, it’s all right. It’ll be okay.” His hand lightly stilled her worrying fingers. “If you’d rather stay on the porch, we will.”
She nodded, grateful, but his touch infused a calmness that even the next crash of thunder didn’t shake. In a way she couldn’t understand, her fears shrank, then subsided.
With the wind slinging rain at them, she turned, stepped through the opening, and entered the cabin. Right behind her, Clay closed the door on the wild weather, but the noise remained, like shrieking demons circling the cabin, rattling the windows, clawing for entrance.
She edged close to Clay’s side. He still hadn’t released her hand, and she was glad for the warmth of it. Her lifeline to composure.
But then he slid his hand away, muttering, “Let’s get you some towels.” In the kitchen, he loaded her up with three dingy dish rags from the musty cupboard, and she smothered a smile at his well-intentioned effort.
He pulled off his drenched cap and made a sorry attempt to wring it out, then laid it on the counter. His bedraggled hair dripped rivulets down his face. She blotted her face, hair, and arms grudgingly and tried not to cringe when she noticed mice-gnawed holes in a corner of a towel.
All the while, Clay stood puddling rain on the scuffed floor, watching her. Impulsively, she reached out and swiped at his flat, drenched hair, rumpling it and preventing the water from dripping into his eyes.
As he ducked out of reach, she smiled at how pitifully soppy his black t-shirt and jeans were. “Aren’t there any bigger towels somewhere?”
His eyebrows flicked together. He put up a silencing hand and cocked his head. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
“What?” Instantly fearful, she clutched the wet, pungent towels to her chest.
Frowning, he crept forward and peeked in the bedroom, then bathroom.
“It’s just the rain. Or the wind.” Her tone pleaded for him to agree.
He shook his head. “It came from the cellar.” He circled back to the trap door in the kitchen floor.
“You’re not going down there?” She tugged at his arm, seized by muddled nightmare visions of what might
await, including mobs of rats, demonic specters, and Abner’s ghost.
Clay took her by the shoulders and moved her back gently, whispering, “Go to your car. Lock yourself in.”
She gave an emphatic shake of her head and he didn’t look pleased. Dropping the towels, she reached for her phone, ready to call for help if there was, indeed, a reason. Not finding the phone on her, she realized it was still in her purse in the car.
“Go,” Clay ordered, then he eased open the squeaky cellar door. As he peered into the dimness, she heard the distinct, steady creak, creak, creak of footsteps.
Someone was walking up the steps toward them.
* * *
The woman lay in bed, torturing herself.
She didn’t know what was worse: not knowing where he was, or suspecting he was with the other woman.
It was too long since he’d held her. Way too long. All because of the tramp.
I have to find him.
His presence gave her comfort. His touch gave her strength. Both things she needed.
Desperately.
Getting out of bed was so difficult these days. She was tired almost all the time now. Her hand fluttered to her temple, then her belly. For such a tiny thing, the baby was powerful, leaching all her energy.
Her only hope was that the child would be worth the trouble, would be enough to make him forget the other woman and stay with her forever.
With him by her side, she would finally have everything. Her heart panged.
I’ll finally be happy.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Startled, Clay and Charlene stumbled back as a man emerged from the cellar shadows.
“Howdy.” The stout, bespectacled man doffed his derby hat, greeting them as if they’d met casually on a stroll. He stood shorter than Clay and appeared to be middle-aged. Crow’s feet cut deep at the corners of his eyes. Then he sidled a little closer, and Charlene caught a whiff of a telltale smell.
After the Thaw Page 25