by Dianne Miley
“Why didn’t you—” Angelina began and then scowled out the window. “Oh, now he comes home.”
Brett snorted a laugh. “That’s a first. I’m saved by Dad.”
“Just remember,” she snuck in before Wayne opened the door. “It’s never too late. If Laura is the one, you can’t give up.”
He fingered the velvet box tucked deep in his pocket. He’d planned to return it but ran out of time.
The door swung open. Wayne banged down his metal lunchbox and bent to remove his grungy workboots at the edge of the rug. Standing full height, he nodded at Brett.
“That frown for me?” he demanded gruffly.
“Oh hush up,” Angelina scolded. “Your son’s leaving town tomorrow, and you expect him to be smiling?”
“I figured he’d be glad be rid of me,” his father said in a rare moment of teasing.
“Got that right!” Brett teased back.
Wayne padded across the shiny green tile and pecked his wife on the cheek. She patted his back affectionately as he helped set food on the table. Brett was amazed at how smoothly dinner went. The food tasted delicious, as always, and his father seemed genuinely concerned about Brett’s future.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea—you moving so far from your mother and me.” Wayne’s voice cracked. “You don’t know a soul down there.”
Was he actually broken up that Brett was leaving? His show of emotion was scarcer than hen’s teeth. Nah, must be a frog in his throat. It was just sarcasm about Brett being a mama’s boy.
Then the conversation wound around to the murder.
“I still don’t see why the James girl didn’t just poison that bum from the get-go,” Wayne said.
“He was her brother-in-law,” Brett defended.
“They already had a funeral. No one woulda missed him.”
Angelina hurried to the refrigerator and brought out homemade cannolis to divert Wayne’s attention.
But Brett couldn’t forget his dad’s comments, wondering if his father even knew he’d been dating ‘the James girl.’ If Laura had poisoned Jake, no one would have been the wiser. She risked her life to do the right thing as she saw it. Despite his tumultuous feelings, he couldn’t help admiring that.
After dessert, he hugged his mother tenderly and gave his father an awkward handshake. A tear glistened in his father’s eye. His allergies had to be acting up. Then Brett stepped out the door as their son, and into a new life as his own man.
He drove around the sleepy town square. Labor Day at nine o’clock, and the sidewalks were rolled up for the night. He didn’t relish spending the evening home alone, with reminders everywhere of a woman who’d sent him away. With great dread, he approached Rose Hill Drive.
Lights blazed at Chad’s house, and Max’s Porsche sat in the driveway. Relief flooded Brett as he parked at the cottage and walked toward Chad’s. Seeing his friends, even for a sad goodbye, ranked several notches above spending the evening feeling sorry for himself. Come tomorrow, he’d be in an unfamiliar city, friendless, and totally alone.
He pushed Laura from his mind. At least he had the job. A great job. He’d make new friends. Get a fresh start. He put on a happy face and banged the nickel door knocker engraved with “James” in bold letters.
Chad flung the door open and his face burst into a grin. “Hey, bro!” He pounded Brett’s back and ushered him in.
The nickname wasn’t lost on him. He’d thought Chad really would be his brother-in-law. The reminder of what he’d lost deflated his cheerful façade, leaving him empty inside. The vacuum threatened to suck him into a black hole of pain.
“Hey,” he responded with a cracking voice. Fighting against the tide of emotion, his heart hardened in self-defense. He didn’t need Laura, didn’t need family or friends. The job would be enough. Because that’s all he had.
“Come on in and watch the race. Max is here.” Chad led him into the living room, where the TV blared.
Good, he wouldn’t have to talk. Chad knitted his brow with a brewing question, but Max came to the rescue asking about the NASCAR job. Brett gratefully filled him in on the details, but his jaw remained tight.
“This job’s too good to be true,” he tried to convince himself as much as anyone. “Tomorrow I’ll be right there in the thick of it,” he said with forced enthusiasm.
“I hate to see you go,” Max said. “I hoped something would work out here.” He asked lots of questions about the new job.
Brett raved about Bo Hatley and his offer.
“I’ve met Bo,” Max admitted. “He’s a good guy. I’ve considered doing business with him myself.”
Brett pondered that remark. Max’s engines and Bo’s suspension systems would make one heck of a racecar.
“So that’s it for you and Laura, then?” Chad asked soberly.
Brett’s heart squeezed. “Hey, man, I really don’t want to leave her right now. But she refuses to speak to me.” Sadness and anger crept into his voice. “I asked her to go, Chad. She won’t leave Crystal Falls. She told me to leave her alone and go live my life. What else can I do?”
Max got a funny look on his face, but didn’t say a word.
“She’s innocent,” Chad declared adamantly. “And if Hunter doesn’t prove that, I’ll see to it myself.”
Awkward silence ensued with the odd proclamation. Just how did he intend to do that? A seed of suspicion threatened to sprout, but Brett crushed it immediately. Family loyalty, that’s all it was. If she hadn’t pushed him away, he’d fight tooth and nail for her too. A dark cloud hung over them as they watched the end of the race.
“Well, I’d better go.” He stood. “I’m leaving early.”
“Take care of yourself.” Max stood with him, shook his hand, and patted him on the back football-style.
“Thanks for stopping.” Chad gave him a brotherly hug. “Don’t be a stranger when you visit your folks.” Two sad male faces made Brett feel guilty as they said final goodbyes.
Walking home, he noted Laura’s bedroom light was still on. He stared at her window until he tripped on the gravelly edge of the road. Catching himself before falling on his face, he stopped at the farmhouse sidewalk.
The light snapped off, plunging the entire house into darkness. Taking it as a sign, he continued on his way.
****
Faint tendrils of dawn light peeked around the window shade. Laura lay awake, as she had all night. With a heavy sigh, she lifted the lilac comforter and arose from bed.
Soft, violet carpeting cushioned her steps. She pulled up the shade, looking down from the second story window. Hazy fog filtered daylight over the dewy landscape on Rose Hill Drive.
In the driveway next door, Brett carried a duffel bag to his car. He tossed it in the trunk, walked to the driver’s door, and climbed in.
She had to stop him! She threw up her window. Sticking her head out, she waved her arms wildly.
The Corvette sparkled with condensation. His profile huddled behind the steering wheel. White smoke spurted from the tailpipe and the wipers scraped a path across the windshield. The car inched toward the end of the driveway.
She panicked. Running from the window, she tripped on her robe and landed face down on the carpet. She scrambled up, gathered her robe in her fist and rushed into the hall.
At the top step, Daisy cut in front of her. Laura pushed the cat aside with her foot, nearly falling down the stairs. She hurried down the steps, clutching her robe. She yanked open the front door and burst onto the porch.
She saw nothing but his taillights. Brett drove away from her—away from Crystal Falls. Headed toward the interstate, he disappeared over the broad horizon.
The vision chiseled into her frozen heart like an ice pick. There on the front porch, her heart cracked in two.
“He’ll be back,” her mother said from the doorway. “His mama’s here.” Standing just inside the door, she smiled reassuringly, but deep creases lined her forehead.
Laura ran
into her arms and wept.
“This too shall pass.” Mama’s favorite saying.
“Yeah, like he passed me over for a job.”
“But he asked you to come, didn’t he?”
“Ha!” She snorted through sobs. “He asked me to give up everything to go with him.”
“Sometimes you have to take a chance—” Emily pulled back to look at her.
Laura took an angry swipe at her tears. “I can’t risk losing everything.” She pushed away.
A deep sigh resonated from her mother. “What about love?”
“Brett Mitchell doesn’t love me.” Turning her back, her heart pounded. “If he did, he wouldn’t leave me here alone.”
After a long moment, Emily smoothed her hair. “Everything will turn out all right in the end.”
No, it was too late. Chief Hunter suspected her of murder, Rachel hated her, and Rosebuds ’ customers stayed away in droves. She’d lost everything. And now Brett was gone.
Lilacs For Laura
Lilacs For Laura
Chapter 21—Yellow Roses
Warm breezes lingered into September, drifting over the green Charlotte landscape and into Bo Hatley’s shop with Brett. He walked across the buffed checkerboard floor, past shiny equipment and gleaming walls. Morning sunlight reflected from wide, sparkling windows looking over a manicured lawn. Everything was bright and new like the fresh start life had handed him.
He was determined to find happiness here. After only three days, he’d already rented a small house and made a friend. The racecar driver, Grant Neal, ate lunch with him and even offered to help pick up his new sofa after work. Brett hoped he’d stay and watch the Friday night fights. Maybe even get together over the weekend. Not that he was lonely. Just bored.
Brett clocked in and joined the other fit young men in neat uniforms. At various work stations, they moved efficiently, pulled tools from organized displays, and built pieces of the racecar. He booted his computer and glanced over his designs.
“Hey, boys!” Race Team Owner, Bo Hatley, called out in a friendly Southern accent as he walked in.
All heads in the shop nodded with a “hey” and a few arms lifted in greeting. Bo headed into the office, and Brett turned back to his state-of-the-art computer system. In college, he’d heard rumors of the cutting edge technology soon to be available. Fortunate to work with it every day, he couldn’t believe he got paid a bundle to boot.
With a few clicks of the mouse, he tweaked the rear suspension and calculated the expected results with accuracy and ease. He printed out the dimensions and moved to the jig where he’d apply them to steel bars and bolts.
“Hey, Brett,” Bo called, walking toward him. “I heard you found a house. Settled in yet?”
“Pretty much.” Brett grinned, but felt surprisingly little joy at the reminder of his empty house.
“Good, good.” Bo affectionately slapped his back. “So how ‘bout giving me a demo of that new machine.”
“Sure, Bo.” On a first name basis with Bo Hatley, NASCAR legend, he knew it didn’t get any better than this. He had the job he’d always dreamed of. At last, he was his own man.
If only he could forget the gaping hole in his heart.
****
Sunlight shone through the clouds, glistening on the meadow where Chief Hunter had found the shotgun pellets. Number six pellets that matched the ones embedded in Jake’s back—and the ones Laura had loaded in Daddy’s shotgun. Hunter hadn’t found a shell. Forensics couldn’t prove anything on pellets, so the possibilities and suspicions remained. She looked toward Mr. Calvin’s house, wondering what the old man saw.
Just home from work, she was anxious to cheer her father with good news. She stepped out of her car into the beckoning sunshine, grateful for the reprieve from cold winds and rain. She hurried to the barn and called, “Daddy, guess what!”
Startled, John dropped his rake in a pile of manure on the stall floor. His graying head jerked up, and Rosemary whinnied.
“What is it, Laura?” he asked with irritation. He hadn’t been his cheerful self since Jake’s murder. He bent painfully to grab his rake from the sawdust bedding.
“Sorry, Daddy.”
Rosemary nudged her, and she petted the horse’s nose.
“So what’s up?” John dumped a scoop of manure in a wagon.
“Mr. Calvin is speaking.” Her heart skipped a beat.
“So?” Her father stiffened, but kept scooping manure. His jeans bent at the knees, slightly favoring the good leg, and his broad back arched over the rake.
“Maybe he saw something, Daddy. Maybe that’s why he had a stroke. Maybe he can clear me.” The words gushed out.
“Lots of maybes. Calvin’s nearsighted as a bat.” John gave her a look of warning. “He might have seen you shooting coons and think you shot Jake.”
She winced at that possibility, and ran her fingers through Rosemary’s tangled mane.
“As it stands, there’s no evidence.” Her father’s blue eyes were sad and unreadable. “Everyone around here uses number six shot. The fact it was in my gun doesn’t prove anything.”
“But Mr. Calvin’s testimony could prove I didn’t do it.”
He moved the wagon to the next stall. “If Calvin starts talking, you might not like what he has to say.”
Dejected, she started back to the house. So much for cheering Daddy. She’d never seen him so negative and distraught. Almost as if he didn’t want the truth to come out.
Did he know something? With horror, she realized Mr. Calvin’s testimony could put the nail in her coffin—or someone else’s.
****
Pulling his new sofa from Grant Neal’s pickup, Brett held up one end and his coworker grabbed the other. Walking backward, he headed into the living room of his small rented house. He had hoped Grant would stay a while, but after spending the last two hours with him, he wondered if he wouldn’t be happier alone.
“Man, you need some furniture!” Grant commented as they entered the empty room.
“Yeah, well, priorities, ya know?” Brett set down the sofa. “Had to find a place to live first.”
Grant assessed the tiny house with a frown of disapproval. Brett didn’t appreciate his scrutiny. The little house felt homey like his mother’s house. And the cottage next door to Laura, he realized with dismay.
“So will the car be ready for Sunday’s race?” Grant asked.
“Yeah, we’ll be ready.” Brett bristled at the questioning of his abilities. Drivers were even more competitive than the rest of the team, but there was no sense in competing with one another. Brett thought Grant befriended him because they were both new and both Yankees. Now he began to wonder if no one else could stand the guy.
“I like my car set up tight,” Grant said in a condescending tone. “Make sure you give it plenty of wedge.”
“You got it, Mr. Know-It-All, sir,” Brett shot back, fed up with Grant telling him how to do his job.
“Hey, don’t get testy.” Grant held up his hands to ward off an argument. “Bo likes your work. He told me so.” With his shoulders thrown back, even the compliment lent an air of superiority.
Bo Hatley confided in him. Yeah, right.
“I try.” Brett didn’t hide his annoyance. He didn’t care to compete with Grant. He really just wanted a friend.
Amazingly, Grant backed off. “You doing anything tonight?”
He probably didn’t have any friends in Charlotte, either. Brett didn’t want to spend the evening alone, but had a gut feeling he’d regret it.
****
The Last Lap Night Club was near Lowe’s Motor Speedway. Its Friday night crowd teemed with testosterone and scantily-dressed females who craved it. Brett could surely find one to spend some time with. Montgomery Gentry’s song, Speed blared. He followed as Grant strutted to the bar and ordered two beers.
“Next round’s on you.” Grant handed him a frosty mug.
Not wanting to be rude, Brett took it. But
after living with his father’s drunken fits, he’d sworn off alcohol.
“You may be buying for three,” Grant teased, eyeing a brunette bombshell. “Find yourself a woman and make it four.” He left Brett standing alone and planted himself next to the brunette on the only empty stool.
Unaffected, Brett walked the room, checking out dozens of gorgeous women in mini skirts and push-up bras. Soft flesh bumped his arm, sloshing beer.
“Oh! Sorry.” A giggly blond touched his shoulder.
“That’s okay,” he faltered, steadying the mug as foam dribbled onto his hand. Big doe eyes blinked. Rosy lips pouted. Blond hair cascaded to significant cleavage. Embarrassed, he looked up. The top of her blond head sported dark roots.
“Wanna dance?” she asked with a wiggle, jutting her chest.
“No thanks.” He backed away, grateful for the blaring country-rock music, because he didn’t have a clue what to say. He walked toward Grant and the brunette.
“Are you with someone?” she persisted.
“Just a friend,” he replied in dismissal and turned away. But she clung like Velcro all the way to the bar.
“Driving a race car—” Grant bragged to the brunette, but stopped short when he spied the blond at Brett’s elbow. “Who do we have here?” he asked with an approving smile.
“Uh,” Brett stammered.
“Roxanne.” She bent to shake Grant’s hand, offering a full view of over-tanned bosom. The brunette rolled her eyes.
“Nice to meet you, Roxanne. Love the name.” Grant admired her display and offered his stool. “Have a seat, honey. Would you like a drink?”
“Thank you.” She smiled sweetly. “I’ll have a margarita.”
“Make that two,” Grant piped up, pushing his empty beer mug aside. “What would you like?” he asked the brunette. “My buddy’s buying.”
She swirled beer in the bottom of her glass with a sideways glance at Grant, the cheapskate. “Make that three.”
With an insidious grin and a shirt unbuttoned to his navel, Grant bobbed his head with the music as Brett lightened his wallet to pay for three jumbo margaritas. The brunette thanked him, took her drink and left. Grant leaned on her empty stool and swilled his drink.