“You’re leaving?”
Kent sat on the edge of Gwen’s bed, his legs crossed, a hand on the bedspread beside hers. Brilliant afternoon sunlight filled her bedroom, making it seem as if his blond hair glowed. He smiled at her in a way she found both charming and slightly condescending. Kent was dressed primly in a pin-striped shirt and a dark blue tie, his pants perfectly pressed, looking as if he was about to argue a case—which, in a way, she supposed he was.
“It’s only for a couple of days,” he explained.
“But…but why?” she stammered.
“Because when I called the firm this morning, I was patched through to Morton Wilkinson’s office and he told me that they’re having trouble preparing the depositions for the Atwood case. He said that they needed me as soon as possible.” His smile broadened. “Morton’s a partner, Gwen! This is the best thing that could’ve happened for my career!” Kent rubbed his smoothly shaved chin. “My guess is that Caruthers told the old man how I’d taken over for Burns, to say nothing about the work I did on the Simmons case, where I had to…”
Gwen struggled to pay attention as Kent held forth, providing her with more details than she could ever have wanted. She’d learned that once he got going, it was best not to interrupt. So instead, struggling to hold back a yawn, she thought about her new predicament.
Just the day before, Gwen had been worried about bringing Kent with her to Buckton. He was a man of the city, used to the hustle and bustle, the bright lights and thousands of people. She’d fretted about how he would react to being cooped up in the middle of rural Indiana with her parents for company. Gwen had suspected he’d be bored out of his wits and would sneak away to work.
And in a way, that’s just what he’s doing…
A sudden urge filled her. “Take me with you,” she blurted, interrupting his discourse.
Kent stared at her. “I don’t think that—”
“I’m fine,” Gwen insisted, cutting him off again, sensing his coming argument. She was filled with the strong, irrational conviction that if she stayed behind, her life was never going to be the same. “I want to be with you.”
She threw back the covers and started to get out of bed, but the sudden movement made the room twist and turn, causing Gwen to fall back down on her pillows, feeling more than a bit nauseous.
Kent slowly shook his head; it looked like he was scolding her, as a parent might a child, which irritated her. “You’re not up for it, sweetheart,” he said. “Stay here and let your parents look after you.” Kent took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Besides, once I get to Chicago, I’ll be working around the clock. If you needed me, I wouldn’t be able to leave the office. This is for the best. For both of us.”
“When are you leaving?”
“In a little more than an hour,” he answered after a quick glance at his watch. “Warren’s taking me to the station.”
At the mention of her father, Gwen remembered what her mother had told her that afternoon about how Warren had treated Hank. “When I was brought home,” she began, “how did my father react?”
“At first, he was shocked witless, just like the rest of us, but when he saw who had come in the door with you, his mood quickly changed.”
“In what way?”
“He was angry, far more so than I could’ve imagined,” Kent explained. “Whenever I’ve been around Warren, which admittedly hasn’t been often, he’s been easy to talk to, quick to make a joke. But not last night. It was quite the sight.”
Gwen felt a twinge of embarrassment, shame for how her father had behaved. She wondered how Hank had felt; he’d done something admirable, risked his life in an act of heroism, and the thanks he got was to be talked down to before being thrown out onto the street.
“I don’t understand why he was so upset,” Kent continued. “When I talked with the man, he seemed like a good enough sort, even if he looked half-drowned standing there in his soaked clothes.”
“You spoke with Hank?” she asked, surprised.
Kent nodded. “I wanted to express my gratitude for what he’d done. After all, he saved the life of the woman I’m going to marry.”
Gwen ignored the comment.
“One thing was odd about him, though,” he added with a frown.
“What was that?”
“When I tried to thank him properly, as he most certainly deserved, he wouldn’t hear of it. He said that he’d simply done the right thing, as if he was some hero out of the comic books. I chuckled about it half the night.”
Suddenly, Gwen was forced to wonder what would have happened had it been Kent standing on the bridge, watching as she flailed about in the river. If he’d been in Hank’s shoes, would he have dived in? Would Kent have risked his own life to save someone else’s? To save hers? Or would he have stood there, helpless, too impotent to act as she drowned? Almost immediately she decided not to give the matter any more thought.
“Later, when Meredith told me what the fellow had done, I could better understand your father’s reaction,” he explained. Kent shook his head. “Killing his own brother. Can you imagine it?”
Gwen couldn’t, but she was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and no longer wanted to talk about Hank and Pete Ellis.
But then, just as she was about to ask Kent what day she might expect him to return to Buckton, he took another glance at his watch, got to his feet, and announced that it was time for him to get going.
“I thought you weren’t leaving for an hour,” she said.
“I still need to finish packing my things, and then I should say a proper good-bye to your parents. Besides, you need your rest.”
Gwen frowned, sulking a bit at how unfair it all was. Her hopes for their vacation had been dashed in less than a day. “Will you miss me?”
“Every second that I’m away,” Kent answered with a smile. “As a matter of fact, I need something to tide me over until I return.”
He leaned down, tilted Gwen’s chin up with his hand, and tenderly placed his lips against hers. Their kiss wasn’t particularly passionate, yet it lingered, his touch warm and welcome, a sweet moment that made her heart beat faster. When it ended, Gwen kept her eyes closed, relishing it, knowing she would miss him while he was gone.
When he reached the door, Kent looked back. “I’ll call every night.”
“You’d better,” Gwen warned, though she knew it was unlikely he’d hold to his promise; she worried it’d be like the times he had stood her up outside the theater or restaurants, too absorbed in his work to think of her.
“And when I get back,” he added, “we’ll start planning the wedding.”
“We still need to talk about—”
But by then Kent was already gone, the door clicking shut behind him, undoubtedly happy that he’d gotten in the last word.
Gwen sighed, feeling more than a little frustrated. Her relationship with Kent was a conundrum, a riddle she couldn’t quite solve. She loved him, wanted to marry him, but the question of her becoming a writer remained unresolved. It was a dream she wasn’t willing to give up. Maybe now, with some time apart, she could do the thinking she knew she desperately needed.
Fatigue pressed down on her. Gwen yawned, allowed her eyelids to flutter and then close. She’d search for answers later.
First, she would sleep.
When Gwen finally woke, she did so with an itch she had to scratch.
She needed to write.
Unfortunately, the notebook in which she’d scribbled out her ideas, observations, and stray thoughts, almost a year’s worth of work, had been the reason for her current condition. She could still see it, floating on the surface of the water, practically begging her to save it, but it had been bait in a trap. It had surely been destroyed, although she fancied the idea that it floated on and on, racing over rapids, around bends, under bridges, and through the other towns farther downstream. Either way, it was gone for good.
Which meant she needed something else to wri
te in.
Gwen got out of bed, steadied herself on the bedpost as her head did a dizzy little dance, then went to her bags and began rummaging in the pockets.
Where is it? I know I packed it before I left…
And then she found it. Gwen had another journal in which she doodled from time to time, jotting down names, numbers, and whatever else wasn’t quite good enough for the other book. She supposed it would have to do. Snatching up a pencil, she got back in bed and went to work.
Words flowed from her like the water in which she’d nearly drowned. Observations of every sort filled line after line: the chill of the river soaking into her clothes, her skin, down to her bones; how the dark clouds had skidded across the sky, the moon passing in and out of sight; the taste of the brackish water; and how tiny her voice had sounded as she screamed for help that she was sure would never come. For a long while, Gwen lingered on the shadowy form of her rescuer looming over her, saying her name. Her words spoke of her fears, her sadness, and her sudden hope, all the emotions she’d felt. On and on Gwen wrote, like a spigot turned open, wearing down the lead of her pencil until she had no choice but to stop.
Gwen sat back against her pillows. Writing had been invigorating, another way to heal, but deep in her heart she knew there was still something she had to do.
No matter what her father might think, regardless of the warning her mother had given, she had to speak with Hank Ellis.
Chapter Eight
HE OFFERED YOU forty bucks and you turned it down? Are you nuts?!”
Hank looked over at Skip Young as they drove down Main Street. His friend was staring back as if he was actually crazy. Two baseball gloves lay in his lap, a bat leaned between his knees, and the ball he’d been tossing was now frozen in his hand. His reaction made sense; Skip was always on the lookout for money.
“It wouldn’t have been right,” Hank answered.
“Who cares? Do you know how much forty bucks can buy?”
“I didn’t jump in the river so I could get a reward.”
“Then why did you do it?” Skip asked.
“Because I was the only one who could help,” he replied. “If I hadn’t, she would’ve drowned.”
“So what’s wrong with lettin’ a guy express his gratitude for savin’ his fiancée?”
Hank frowned. “It’s not just the money,” he said, thinking about his conversation with Kent. “I didn’t like the way he was talking to me.”
“How so?”
“He made me feel like a bellhop at a hotel getting paid for hauling luggage. It was like I was beneath him, like he was doing me a favor.”
“Soakin’ wet, I bet you looked like a hobo.”
Hank couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve got a point.”
Skip chuckled, too. “Darn right, I do.”
They drove past the movie theater, the post office, and the library, all places where Hank had once felt comfortable, even welcome, but that had changed with Pete’s death. Everywhere he went, he felt like every eye was on him, watching, judging. His discomfort peaked when they passed the bakery. Hank couldn’t keep from looking in the front window. Warren Foster was surely inside, helping his customers with a smile and a good word, a far cry from the man who’d insinuated that Hank had had a hand in his daughter nearly drowning.
“I want you out of my house!”
“Boy, I wish someone would try to give me forty dollars,” Skip said as he stuck his hand out the window, letting the wind turn it this way and that.
“You’d be thrilled if it was a couple of quarters.”
“True,” his friend replied, nodding. “Which should tell you how bananas I think you are for turning down four sawbucks.”
For as long as Hank could remember, Skip had been obsessed with making money. Even as a boy, he’d sold newspapers, collected scrap metal in his wagon, trimmed bushes, whatever it took to make sure there were a few coins rattling around in his pocket. Skip’s father was an auto mechanic, a lazy man who was slow to get out of bed in the morning, rarely completed a job on time, and struggled to pay his bills. Hank had always figured that the reason Skip was the exact opposite of his old man was because he was afraid of ending up like him.
“What about Gwen?” Skip asked. “Is she gonna be all right?”
“I reckon so.” That morning, Hank had called Grant Held. While the doctor hadn’t been forthcoming with details, he’d said that Gwen would be back on her feet in a couple of days.
“So what was she like?”
“Beats me. I didn’t really talk to her. She passed out as soon as I hauled her from the river.”
Skip shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. I’m askin’ if she’s still as pretty as she used to be. Gwen was always one heck of a looker.”
If Hank could have brought himself to be honest, he would’ve admitted that Gwen Foster was beautiful. Looking at her as she lay on the riverbank in her drenched clothes, radiant in the moonlight with strands of wet hair splayed across her face, had made his heart pound. Even when she was unconscious, leaning against the door where Skip now sat or lying in her parents’ living room, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She’d captivated him. Later, after he had gone home and found his father still snoring on the couch, Hank had lain awake for hours, staring up at his bedroom ceiling, wondering if Gwen was going to be all right, wishing that he’d insisted on staying until the doctor arrived. As the hours slowly drifted past, he began to feel more and more foolish; after all, what was the point of pining for a woman engaged to another man? What sleep he’d had was brief and fitful.
“I didn’t really notice,” he lied.
“When we were kids, I always wanted to ask her to a school dance.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Skip shrugged. “I guess I figured she wouldn’t be interested.”
Though he never would have said it out loud, Hank thought that his friend was probably right. Skip Young was far from the most handsome man that Buckton had to offer. He’d always reminded Hank of Ichabod Crane, the awkward schoolmaster of Sleepy Hollow. He was tall and thin, gangly, all elbows and knees, with a prominent Adam’s apple and a nose like a beak. His strawberry-blond hair was so thin that it was only a matter of time before he was bald. Still, Skip’s personality more than made up for any of his physical shortcomings. He was smart, funny, driven, and as loyal as a hound dog. The more Hank thought about it, the more he realized that he was selling his friend short. Maybe Gwen would’ve accepted.
Milt Duesenberg’s filling station loomed ahead. Skip rapped his knuckles against the door. “Do me a favor and pull in,” he said. “I wanna grab a Coke before the game.”
Hank did as his friend asked, stopping short of the gas pumps. The red-and-white Coca-Cola machine sat between the station’s two garage doors. Inside one of the garage bays, an Oldsmobile was hoisted up on a jack, but no one was working on it.
“You’re buyin’, right?” Skip asked when they’d gotten out of the truck.
“How do you figure that?”
“Remember last week when we stopped at that market outside Janesville? You said that if I spotted you a couple bucks for that set of chisels the owner had in that cracked display case, you’d—”
Hank interrupted. “All right, all right,” he said. “I believe you.” When it came to money, Skip’s memory was encyclopedic.
He fished a couple of nickels out of his pocket and dropped the first into the soda machine’s coin slot. It clinked around a bit before hitting bottom. Hank opened the door, grabbed a bottle, and pulled it free. Popping the cap on the opener, he handed the drink to Skip, who took a healthy pull.
“Boy, that sure hits the spot,” he said.
But then, when Hank stuck the other nickel into the machine, it sounded as if it traveled only half as far as the first. He grabbed a bottle, hoping that he’d misheard, but the soda wouldn’t budge.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he grumbled.
“The coin g
ot stuck,” Skip observed. “Give it a good whack.”
Hank slapped the side of the machine with the palm of his hand, once, twice, a third time, each harder than the last, until the nickel at last came free, falling to the bottom. He’d grabbed his drink, opened it, and started to swig the sweet beverage when he heard footsteps approaching from behind.
“What in the heck’s goin’ on out here?”
Milt Duesenberg strode purposefully toward him. The filling station owner held a large wrench in his hand. Smudges of grease darkened his hands, chin, and overalls. At first, he didn’t seem particularly angry, but then he took a good long look at Hank. There was a flicker of recognition and his mood instantly went south; his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed.
“What’re you up to, troublemaker?” he snarled, pointing the wrench at Hank. “You tryin’ to bust into that machine? Steal from me?”
Before Hank could respond, Skip was between them playing the peacemaker, a broad, soothing smile on his face. “It’s not like that at all, Mr. Duesenberg,” he explained. “His nickel got stuck on the way down. I told him to smack it. If there’s anyone you should be sore at, it’s me.”
Milt’s glare softened, if only a bit. “I reckon that makes sense…” he said. “Does that to me, too, from time to time.”
But even as the man backed down, he kept looking over Skip’s shoulder at Hank, as if he was reluctant to let it go.
“We’ll be off as soon as we’re done with our Cokes,” Skip added.
Milt nodded, then began slowly backing toward the pumps and his office beyond. Even at the doorway, he lingered, still watching Hank.
Hank stared right back.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Skip said, still trying to smooth things over. “He’s havin’ a bad day, that’s all.”
While Hank wished he could do as his friend suggested, just let the accusatory words fall away like water off a duck’s back, he couldn’t. No matter what he did, folks assumed the worst about him. He was a murderer. Nothing but trouble. Bad news. Someone to steer clear of. This was the way it was always going to be, and nothing he could ever do would change that. The only person who didn’t judge him was Skip.
Sunday Kind of Love Page 8