After the Thaw

by Therese Heckenkamp

  He eased his hands away. “So now you know.”

  Now I know. She dropped her hands to her lap.

  “Promise me something, Charlene. Don’t ever get a tattoo.”

  How could he take this so lightly? She watched as he began rewrapping the bandages. Anger at Grandfather boiled inside her. “He went way too far. This isn’t okay—”

  “It is.” Clay finished securing the last bandage and leaned back on his arms. “It’s over. I’m not locked up. Not in prison. If this is the worst I’ve got, I’m doing all right.”

  Prison. That dirty word again. She hated to think of him there, but she’d never asked, and tonight she felt like she could. Her one night stay in jail had been bad enough. But Clay—he’d spent twelve months and a day locked up. She couldn’t imagine. “How bad was it?”

  He was silent a moment. “Tolerable.” A shadow flickered across his face. “Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t ever want to go back.” He looked up at the stars. “But like I told you before, some good came out of it.”

  He crushed a soda can under his hand. “It took me losing everything to understand. When you lose it all, when you hit rock bottom, it’s black and empty. Lonely. That’s when I found out . . . I wasn’t alone.” He shot her a guarded look. “Does that make any sense?”

  “It does.”

  His hands went into his pockets. There was a pause between songs on the radio, and her ears filled with a lively medley of chirping insects.

  “You still pray the Rosary, Charlene?”

  A change of subject? “Sometimes. Not every day anymore . . .”

  “Remember those marks you scratched on the wall, down in the hole? To keep track of your prayers?”

  She waited for her heart to seize at the memory, but it didn’t. She found herself nodding calmly. “You called religion just another form of captivity. Didn’t want anything to do with it.”

  “I didn’t. For the longest time.” He lowered his chin. “Then I found out what real captivity was.”

  She stayed very still.

  “When Father Grady offered me this . . .” He drew his hand from his pocket to reveal a cheap plastic rosary, the black beads and crucifix held together with white cord. “I almost refused it. I wanted to throw it back in his face. But you don’t get much to call your own in prison.”

  He ran the beads through his fingers. “Never even knew there was such a thing as a prison regulation rosary, but apparently there’re people out there who take the time to make and donate these, some kind of prison ministry. Who would take the time to do that? For worthless convicts?”

  She heard the smile in his voice, but still hated his using the expression. She studied the string of dark beads and thought it wouldn’t be that difficult to put together. But she wasn’t impressed by the somber color choice. “They couldn’t have made it a little cheerier looking?”

  “What would you suggest? Pink?” He chuckled. “Gotta be black to avoid gang colors.”

  The crucifix dangled and twirled in the breeze. He watched it for a moment. “Obviously, I could have prayed without this. Wasn’t anything stopping me. But there wasn’t much motivating me, either. Having something tangible, something to remind me . . . something to hold on to. It made the difference. Especially in that bereft world.”

  His fist closed over the beads. “I hope I won’t ever take prayer for granted again. Or life, for that matter.” He tucked the rosary back in his pocket.

  “You always carry it with you?” She thought of her own rosary, the blue beads that had been with her through so much, now hidden away in her nightstand drawer.

  “I do.” He fingered one of their forgotten marshmallow sticks.

  “And if you lose it?” Her gaze slid away from him.

  “Father Grady could always hook me up with another one.”

  As if it could be so easily replaced. “You still talk to him? Still see him?”

  “Sure. There’s no one better to debate religion with. He set me up with all the best books, too.”

  “The Bible?”

  “Of course.”

  “Lives of the Saints?”

  “You bet. I even read about Saint Tarcisius. I’ll still never like the name, but you were right, he was courageous.” Clay cleared his throat. “And there’s worse to be named after.”

  Something about his tone put her on alert. He broke the stick, then chucked half at the fire. It hit with a whack, and sparks flew. The flames popped, hissed, and settled. “Now I know why my dad—or whoever he was—picked my name. And why he always seemed hardest on me. He must have known the truth, or at least suspected, that I wasn’t really his son.” He tossed the rest of the stick at the fire, missing this time.

  She edged a hair closer. Not really wanting to, she asked, “What do you mean?”

  “He told me once . . . I can’t recall what I did to tick him off, but he’d had a few drinks, so it wouldn’t have taken much. He yanked me upside down and started jabbing at my face. Being the smart kid I was, I grabbed his finger and bit it.

  “He dropped me to the ground and started mashing my head in the dirt. Man, I thought he was gonna scrub my face right off.” He swiped a hand over his cheek. “I can still hear his exact words. ‘You’re dirt, boy, nothing but dirt. That’s what clay is. That’s all you’ve ever been and all you’ll ever be, and don’t you forget it.’”

  She was stunned into silence. A single tear trembled on her lashes, afraid to fall.

  Turning to her suddenly, Clay looked ashamed. “I shouldn’t have told you that. I don’t know why I did.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. “Sorry. I’m sorry—”

  “No, Clay, I’m sorry.” Her words came out full of the swelling ache in her throat. She didn’t know what she was doing. It was simply an instinct.

  His sad face, all too often wounded and hurt, was right there, draped in conflicting shadows and firelight, mere inches from her.

  How could she resist?

  Reaching up, she cupped his chin in her hands, drew him to her, and kissed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Clay broke away, knocking into soda cans, clattering them to the ground. “What are you doing?” Alarm flashed in his eyes.

  Charlene couldn’t believe what she’d just done, yet she shared none of his panic. Her lips still tingling, she absorbed the blissful moment. They’d melded together, and all had been right. But if he hadn’t felt what she had . . .

  Her eyes opened fully. Her hands fell to her sides.

  She should tell him she was sorry, but she wasn’t. Not yet.

  She should be embarrassed, but she didn’t feel that, either. She was still clinging to the memory of the kiss. And it overpowered everything else.

  She started to speak, then stopped. She wasn’t going to make excuses or apologize for something that had felt so right, still felt right.

  It was what it was.

  And apparently, Clay thought it was terrible.

  He sat speechless, appalled by her bold behavior. A deep sadness returned, creeping over her heart.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded, although she didn’t think he really wanted an answer.

  So she gave him one. “You kissed me back.”

  The distress in his eyes was swept away by outrage. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t.” She dropped to the ground. “If you don’t.”

  “What? What’s that supposed to mean?” He jumped off the tailgate. “Don’t even try to blame that on me. That was all you—”

  She spun around to face him with a glare, while hating herself for glaring at him. “It was not all me. You took me to this remote location, with the music, the fire, the moon and the stars. Like the perfect . . . something. And then feeding me your—your heartbreaking story. How can you not—” She turned to hide her brimming eyes. “Never mind.”

  How could he be so blind? What had felt so beautiful, now rankled, sour and ugly
. She swiped away her tears. She just needed to be anywhere but here. Anywhere but with him.

  He stalked to his truck and cut the music.

  He had a point, though. What had she been thinking? She was engaged, and Clay was with Brook, having a baby with her, for crying out loud. Kissing him wasn’t right. Not at all. It was as wrong as could be. Deep in her mind and soul, she knew that. The truth wrung her heart.

  I really am messed up.

  Whatever these feelings were that she had for him, they were dangerous. They’d crashed over her suddenly, but she suspected they’d been building stealthily for a very long time. Others could see what she couldn’t—or didn’t want to—face.

  The memory of Brook’s voice floated out of nowhere. “Do you have feelings for him?” She pictured the angel Clay had carved for her. The heart cupped in loving hands. He’d given his heart to Brook, and Charlene had given hers to Ben.

  Glowering, Clay attacked the little fire, smothering it brutally, extinguishing all flame. Just like that, she’d have to stomp out any stray feelings she had for him. She’d had a hard enough time convincing him to be a friend; how could she think he would ever see her as more?

  She would be satisfied with friends. She would.

  And yet, he had returned the kiss. For the briefest, most thrilling moment, he had. She was sure of it.

  But what did it matter now?

  And why wouldn’t he speak? He only cast her a cryptic, offended glance before they climbed into their respective vehicles. Their headlights burst on, and they drove, leaving the no-longer-enchanting spot behind, swallowed by the night. As if it had never existed. And it shouldn’t have.

  Soon they left the country road for the mind-numbing stretch of double lane highway that would take them back to Creekside.

  She kept her radio off. No music could possibly pair with her heavyhearted thoughts. A knot of pain sat in her middle, hard and palpable.

  Mile upon mile she drove, till there was nothing to do but squeeze out a prayer past her stiff, cold soul. A prayer that Clay would find peace and happiness, even . . . even though it couldn’t be with her.

  They parted ways when he turned onto the street that led to Sam’s, and she continued on to her apartment.

  She slid into her spot beside Brook’s car. She couldn’t bear the thought of rehashing the day with her, though technically she brought good news of Clay’s return. She hoped Brook was sleeping. As she opened her door, she heard her phone chime, muffled in her purse.

  Could it be Clay? Did she want it to be? Part of her leapt with hope. She dug it out and thumbed the answer button without checking the screen.

  In her peripheral vision, she barely noted the bounce of headlights as a vehicle turned into the lot.

  “Charlene, something terrible happened.”

  She floundered to identify the woman’s strained voice on her phone, realizing it was Ben’s mom just as the woman choked on her words. “Someone broke in. When Ben was here alone.”

  Alarmed, Charlene tried to pry more details out of her. Infuriatingly, Mrs. Jorgensen only said, “You need to come right away. I have to go.” She hung up.

  Charlene gaped at the “Call Ended” screen and tried to process Mrs. Jorgensen’s words. She hadn’t even said if Ben was okay. But surely he was. She would have said if he wasn’t. No, she would have said if he was, and she hadn’t—

  The sound of approaching footsteps made her look up.

  “Hey,” Clay said from several feet away. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out rough, ragged like his expression. “I didn’t want to leave things like—” His words cut off and his focus shifted. He crossed to her side in two strides, a hand going to her arm. “What’s wrong?”

  Lips compressed, she gave a little shake of her head. Not now. He’d come back, but she couldn’t do this now. “It’s Ben.” She slipped back into her car. “Something happened. Something bad. I have to go to him.”

  Clay released her arm. His disconcerted expression said, What was I thinking? “Yeah, of course. Go. I hope he’s all right.”

  She put her hand on the door and he backed up.

  “I just wanted to make sure you got home okay. That’s all. Drive safe.” With an abrupt up-then-down of his hand—a lame attempt at a wave—he headed back to his truck.

  After pulling out onto the road, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw his silhouette just standing there, watching her as she left.

  Ripping her gaze away, she aimed for the highway, blinking rapidly. She had another long, lonely drive ahead of her.

  No, I’m not really alone.

  She made a shaky sign of the cross and began to pray.

  * * *

  A police car hunkered in Ben’s driveway, setting Charlene’s heart to a discordant beat. It was one in the morning, and all the house lights blazed.

  She sprinted to the door. Ben’s mom let her in, no judgment in her eyes, only relief at seeing her.

  “He’s okay, right?” Charlene asked, before her jaw dropped at the sight of a brutally banged up wheelchair. Ben’s wheelchair. It looked as though it had tumbled down a flight of stairs. And he wasn’t in it.

  Something like a squeak escaped her throat.

  “It’s all right.” Mrs. Jorgensen patted her arm. “It’s not what it looks like. He’s okay, but he’s been asking for you so urgently. He’ll tell you everything. Thanks for coming as fast as you did.” She took her arm and hurried her past the disturbing wheelchair, down the hall, and to Ben’s room.

  A silver-haired officer was just closing his notebook. With a nod at her, he left the room with Ben’s mom and dad.

  Once the door closed, she faced Ben, who sat propped up in his bed. He didn’t look hurt. No cuts or bruises, but there was something in his eyes that shook her. “What happened?”

  The moment she stepped close enough, Ben’s arms seized her with a desperate strength, tan arms that looked more muscular than ever. His lips landed on hers, and she couldn’t breathe.

  Nothing like kissing Clay. The thought slammed into her. She hurled it away, powered by shame and the fear that Ben would somehow know she’d betrayed him.

  He released her at last and she gasped a quick breath.

  His eyes drank her in. “Good to know I can still make you blush.” His hand remained on her arm as she dropped into a bedside chair. “You’ve got to forgive me, Charlene. For the Fourth of July. I know I was way out of line and—”

  “No, Ben, you were—” Say it. Say he was right. It was the perfect time to confess, but cowardice shushed her. She let him take over. The earnestness in his face was too powerful.

  “I thought I was going to die, and all I could think was, I didn’t want things left like that between us. Let’s make things right.” He squeezed her hands. “I can’t lose you. Not for anything. I couldn’t stand it. I’ll do what it takes, whatever it takes to keep you. Please tell me you forgive me.”

  She rushed to assure him. “I do. It’s already forgotten. I’m just so glad you’re all right. When I saw your wheelchair . . .” She shuddered. “What happened?”

  He began the story in animated detail, complete with hand gestures. He’d been alone in the house. His mom and dad were out on their monthly “date night,” and Lucy was at a sleepover. He had just fallen asleep when the sound of breaking glass woke him.

  “I called out, thinking it was my mom and dad. I switched on my light. There was no answer, but I heard noises, doors opening and closing, footsteps coming down the hall. Just as I reached my phone, someone burst in here and grabbed it. He was wearing all black. Black mask, black gloves. The last thing I saw before he crashed my lamp over and the lights went out, was the sledgehammer in his hands. I expected it to come crashing down on me at any second.”

  His voice lowered. “I thought I was dead.”

  Her hand went to her throat. A sledgehammer. Nails? Was he back? But why here, attacking Ben? Wasn’t Clay the one—

  “I kept a
sking what he wanted,” Ben continued, “but he never said anything.”

  “How big was he? Really big?”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “No, just average, but strong enough to slam that hammer and pulverize my chair.”

  Just average? Then it couldn’t be Nails. She felt a small measure of relief.

  “My ears are still ringing from the noise.” He put a hand to his head. “It felt like forever, but it was actually over pretty quick. When he left, I kept expecting him to come back, to do something worse. All I could do was wait in the dark till my parents got home. I mean, I could have dropped out of bed and crawled with my arms. I thought about it, but what good would that have done? It was crazy.” He shook his head. “Just major crazy.

  “I mean, what was the point, you know? Break in, shake me up, destroy my chair? If someone was mad enough to do all that, why didn’t they hurt me?”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “I don’t think it’s you they’re mad at.” She had to say it. “I think it’s me. I think they were trying to hurt me, through you.” She looked down at her finger, at her “cursed” knife scar, and her hair fell in her face.

  Ben reached out and tucked a curl behind her ear. “I don’t know. Maybe. But even if that’s true . . . that’s not going to keep me from you. I don’t want you to worry about it. The police will catch him.”

  Then at the very least, they’d need to talk to her. Again. “This is why I should stay away . . .” She sighed. “But even that’s not working.” She bet once Ben’s family realized the attack was her fault, they’d turn cool to her. And she wouldn’t blame them at all.

  She wasn’t worthy of Ben and his adulation anyway. She never had been. But now, after kissing Clay, guilt was a screwdriver twisting deeper in her gut with each endearment from Ben’s lips.

  Confess, she exhorted herself. But Ben had already been through too much. Yes, he was remarkably strong and resilient, but she knew her betrayal would crush him. He’d rather endure another intruder, she was sure, than know her lips hadn’t been true to his. She couldn’t bear to tell him.