Regrets Only (Sequel to The Marriage Pact)

by Pullen, M. J.

  “Thank you, Wanda. I’m here at Grady Hospital where we were just told moments ago that Officer Daniels had not recovered from her injuries. There is a heavy police presence here, both in an official capacity and, I believe, paying respect to the victim’s family. Officer Daniels leaves behind one daughter, who is fifteen, and her mother, who also lived with her. We are told, Wanda, that at one point she was conscious and able to speak to her daughter for a moment before she had to be sedated for surgery. That may be the one bright spot amid what is a horrible tragedy for this family, the police force, and of course the city of Atlanta. Wanda?”

  The anchorwoman promised they would give additional details and updates as they emerged, and then moved on to a story about a fire at a grocery store.

  They both sat in stunned silence for a while. “Oh, honey, I am so sorry,” Marci said.

  Suzanne nodded. “Me, too.” She wanted to cry but the tears weren’t there. “He called her directly.”

  “What?”

  “When I was attacked. When I was…being held, Dylan called Bonita directly because he knew she would believe him and come help me. And she did. And she was right there the whole time with me. She held my hand; she…”

  “I know,” Marci said softly. She touched Suzanne’s arm, which grounded her.

  “I have to call him,” Suzanne said.

  “I think you do,” her friend replied softly.

  #

  It had actually been Yvette whom Suzanne was able to reach that night. Dylan had either been on stage or ignoring her calls, but she found it was easier to break the news to Yvette anyway. Suzanne called her back the next morning when she found out the memorial service would be Friday morning at Bonita’s church; Yvette said that Dylan had back-to-back shows Thursday and Friday night, so he probably wouldn’t make it.

  They were surprised, then, when Friday came and they saw him, standing on the steps of the church in a simple black suit as Jake, Marci, and Suzanne filed in. “Hey,” he said sadly, kissing Marci’s cheek and shaking Jake’s hand. He put his arm around Suzanne and they walked in together, wordlessly.

  The service was one of the saddest and most inspiring things Suzanne had ever seen. Nearly an hour and a half long, tributes came from Bonita’s family, fellow officers, friends, and even the mayor. The most moving thing of all, however, was when Bonita’s daughter, Chrysaline, went to the podium to speak, and found that her voice understandably failed her. She squeaked out “thank you,” through a face contorted with pain, and nearly collapsed before having to be helped away from the microphone and back to her seat. Dylan put his head in both hands and Suzanne thought she saw his shoulders shake with emotion.

  Afterward, the other three lingered awkwardly on the church steps while Dylan stepped aside to call Yvette. Suzanne would later discover that he was giving her Chrysaline Daniels’ name and asking her to set aside VIP tickets for a future concert, to be given at a more appropriate time. His tour would be over in a couple of weeks, but he’d make sure she got to see him next year. He would write a personal note to go with them and let her know he’d been at the service.

  He hung up and returned to the other three, face blotchy with the same emotion they were all feeling, and sweaty. Even at eleven in the morning, the late-August sun was already making downtown Atlanta intolerably hot. Marci looked miserable, even in a sleeveless black cotton dress. No one seemed to have any idea what to say.

  Dylan broke the silence. “I have to go get back on a plane,” he said, his voice strained. “I’m already on thin ice with Yvette for cutting it so close.” Suzanne felt herself nod, reluctantly. He hugged Marci, and Jake, too—one of those awkward, male acquaintance hugs—and then gave Suzanne a tender kiss on the cheek. She shivered despite the hot Atlanta morning.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, looking directly at her.

  She nodded. He let his hand linger on hers for a moment, as though he wanted to say something else. The awkward pause lengthened; it was the place in the conversation reserved for endearments, or promises to reconnect. See you next week. I’ll call you. I love you. As they both searched for words and found none, she realized with renewed sadness it was because neither of them could point to a place in the future where they would be together again.

  She wanted to hold onto him, to grasp his hand and keep him close. But nothing would change with another minute, or ten, or maybe forever. She let his fingers drop. “See ya,” he said, and walked away. In seconds, he had disappeared around the corner.

  Marci gave her a sympathetic look and Suzanne hugged her tightly, being cautious of Marci’s big belly. They linked arms, leaning on one another for support, and the three of them walked to a nearby diner for an early lunch.

  “Wow,” Jake said as they settled into a booth.

  “Such a sad day,” Marci agreed.

  “Well, yeah, that, too. I mean, obviously,” said Jake, opening a menu. “But I was actually just wondering how long Dylan Burke has been in love with Suzanne.”

  Both women looked at him incredulously. “What?” he said.

  “First of all,” Marci said, glancing at Suzanne for support. “How is it that I can talk directly to you about my feelings for forty-five minutes, using the actual words for the feelings, and you don’t catch a word of it but you see two people saying goodbye after a funeral and suddenly you’re Oprah Winfrey?”

  Jake grinned. “Oh, were you talking about your feelings the other night? Sorry, I thought we were summarizing an episode of The Hills.”

  Suzanne smiled despite herself, and Jake ducked to avoid a menu aimed at his head. When Marci regained her composure, she continued. “Second of all, where have you been? Dylan’s been in love with Suzanne forever. Didn’t you see the way he looked at her that night at our house?”

  “What?” Suzanne said. Marci was wrong. She had to be.

  The playful smile she’d been directing at her husband faded from Marci’s face. “I—you mean—? Suze, I thought you knew.”

  Suzanne looked out the window at the sun reflecting off the nearby buildings, and the brilliant blue sky beyond. He’d be up there soon, on his way to wherever he was singing tonight. Maybe Marci was right, and maybe it still didn’t matter. Maybe feelings were just a part of the equation, and they could either enhance reality, or be destroyed by it. It certainly seemed the case for her and Dylan.

  “No,” she said quietly. “I guess I didn’t.”

  Chapter 25

  Suzanne knocked tentatively on the salmon-colored wooden door. She fidgeted with the bouquet of flowers and tuna casserole in her hands and shifted her weight nervously from side to side, the wooden floorboards of the aging front porch creaking beneath her. Bonita Daniels’ house was near the end of a quaint little street in Reynoldstown, one of Atlanta’s older city neighborhoods. The craft-style houses dated back to around the 1920s, and each was painted a different color. Single family homes were mixed with duplexes and even a couple of quadruplexes, many with bicycles or scooters parked out front.

  The last three weeks had dragged by since the funeral. Suzanne had waited until the initial chaos was over to come to pay her more personal respects to the woman who saved her life. Dylan’s tour had been over for nearly a week, and she still had not heard from him. For a woman in her thirties experiencing her first real heartbreak, Suzanne thought she was holding up pretty well. She had resisted the temptation to call him, as well as the very strong desire to let lovelessness and joblessness keep her in bed all day. She was nearing the end of her savings and needed to create work for herself soon, which wasn’t going to happen if she were hiding in her bed.

  Bonita’s mother, Mary, answered the door, pulling Suzanne into a bear hug almost as soon as she’d said hello. “Thank you for letting me stop in,” Suzanne said. “I hope you don’t mind tuna.”

  “No, that’s lovely. Just lovely,” said Mary. “Chrysaline!”

  “That’s okay. Don’t pull her away from anything. I really just wante
d to look in on you—”

  “Chrysaline! We have company!”

  The girl came into the room softly, a sharp contrast compared with her boisterous grandmother. She wore a simple purple hoodie over a white t-shirt and jeans, with her hair braided to each side. “I’m here,” she said.

  “This is Miss Hamilton,” Mary said.

  Suzanne held out her hand and Chrysaline shook it loosely. “Please, call me Suzanne. Your mom helped me when—”

  “I know,” Chrysaline said. “She talked about you. She liked you. I’m…I’m real sorry about what happened to you.”

  “Oh, gosh, no,” Suzanne stammered. “I’m fine, now. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Chrysaline looked at the floor. “Thank you. She was a great mom.”

  Mary set out a plate of cookies and Suzanne sat at the kitchen table with the two of them. She told them how helpful Bonita had been to her, how comforting. “I could see right away what a great mom she must be to you,” she told Chrysaline, who nodded and wiped tears. “And if she was my mom, I’d want to know that she was a hero to someone.”

  They talked for a while longer, Suzanne probing about Chrysaline’s school and interests, Chrysaline asking Suzanne what it had been like working at the High Museum.

  “I went there on a school field trip once and I never wanted to leave,” she said, with as much animation as could be expected from a fifteen-year-old who had just lost her mother.

  “You like art?” Suzanne asked.

  “You kidding?” Mary interjected. “She’s so talented. We’re hoping she’ll get a scholarship to art school. You should show her some of your stuff, Chrys.”

  “Grandma, stop,” the girl objected.

  “Oh, no, I’d love to see it. I’ve gotten back into painting recently myself,” Suzanne said. “May I?”

  Chrysaline led Suzanne up to her attic bedroom, where she had hundreds of sketches, mostly in pencil, covering every surface. A few were flowers and some impressions of buildings, a stray seashell here and there. But mostly they were faces. Beautiful, joyful, sad, pensive, and even haunted. All races and ages—from a toothless baby in pigtails to a weathered elderly woman shelling peas in a rocking chair. They were breathtaking.

  “Oh, wow. That’s all I can say. These are better than anything I ever did, even in my college-level art classes.”

  “Nah, it’s just messing around,” Chrysaline said dismissively.

  “Hush up,” said Grandma Mary fiercely. “Girl, if you can’t stand up and be proud of yourself, no one else will do it for you!”

  Suzanne began to see how Bonita Daniels had grown up to be such a formidable woman herself. She turned back to the teenager, who was biting a thumbnail nervously. “Chrysaline, you are going to art school, aren’t you?”

  The girl looked embarrassed. “I’d like to, but with Mamma gone…”

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll find a way,” her grandmother broke in again, this time trying to be reassuring. Chrysaline shot her a mild smile, and for the first time that afternoon Suzanne saw both women’s lips quaver.

  Suzanne turned her attention to the sketches, not wanting to intrude on their very personal grief. She walked around the hot room the way she had seen so many do at the High, hands behind her back, pointing reverently at some of the more impressive sketches. She made what she hoped were encouraging comments about their beautiful composition and Chrysaline’s obvious skill. After a few minutes, Grandma Mary excused herself to go put the casserole in the oven, and Suzanne followed her down the stairs to say goodbye.

  Grieving or not, Chrysaline had just started school again, and she probably had homework to do and friends to see. Certainly she had better things to do than talk to a stranger whose life had been saved by her mother. Suzanne promised to get her a VIP tour of the museum as soon as she could, which genuinely seemed to delight Chrysaline. As she walked to her car, Suzanne thought she would stop in and check on them from time to time. It seemed like the least she could do to repay Bonita.

  On the car ride home, however, the seed of an idea began to take hold in her mind. Maybe she could do more than she thought.

  Chapter 26

  It was nearly midnight the next day when Suzanne set out for Gatlinburg. She had originally intended to leave earlier, but things had started cascading as soon as she got home from Bonita’s house the evening before and started making phone calls, and then continued all day. She had been absolutely shameless, phoning in every favor she was owed, and a few she wasn’t owed, even from people who had distanced themselves from her after the gala. Betsy Fuller-Brown had been the most help, and even made a few calls to connect her with the right people. But to pull her idea together, she needed more than money and connections. She needed Dylan.

  She knew it was probably unwise to get on the road so late, but she had been up late the night before, making notes and doing research. When she finally fell asleep, she’d slept in until 10:30, so even at midnight she didn’t yet feel tired. She drove through the twenty-four-hour Starbucks for a Venti coffee with two extra shots just to be sure.

  “I’m up all night,” Marci said when they spoke around eleven and Suzanne told her what she was planning. “Call me anytime you need to talk. I sleep on the couch because it’s too damn hot upstairs, so it’s not like you’ll be bothering Jake.”

  But she had not needed to call Marci, and might have been fine without the coffee, but she sipped it slowly over a few hours anyway. Her internal wheels were spinning too fast for her body to want to rest. There were so many things to think about, so many details to iron out. She kept her old voice recorder next to her in the car and dictated to it when things occurred to her. Ideas, people to call, issues to address, and more ideas. Lots and lots of ideas. They seemed to be snowballing on top of her original thought, picking up speed and power as they rolled downhill, taking on a life of their own. It was thrilling.

  Once upon a time, it had been Chad who would collect all those stray thoughts and put them into action. Now, it would just be Suzanne. She’d need help, of course, which was why—or part of why—she was driving to the Tennessee mountains as fast as her little car would take her.

  Yvette had been confused and a little reluctant to tell Suzanne where Dylan was, earlier in the evening. “Look, Suzanne, I’d like to help you,” she said, “but I don’t get involved with Mr. Burke’s personal life. If you want to talk to him, call him yourself and he’ll tell you where he is.”

  “Yvette, I know it’s hard to understand, but this is important, and I don’t want to intrude, but I have to talk to him in person. It’s a…it’s a girl thing,” she finished lamely, kicking herself for saying it. Jesus, Suze, who’s the stalker now?

  But whatever she’d said had worked on Yvette, or at least made her decide that the potential trouble she could be in with Dylan was likely less than the hassle of dealing with Suzanne any longer. She confirmed what Suzanne guessed, that Dylan was at the mountain house. She thought some band members who did not have families to return home to might still be there as well, but beyond that she wasn’t sure. It was good enough for Suzanne.

  She got to Gatlinburg by four a.m. She checked in to a hotel to sleep for a few hours, but found that—whether from the caffeine or adrenaline—her body would not stay on the bed. She paced fruitlessly around the room for a few minutes before getting back in her car and driving up the long curvy roads to the cabin.

  For the last hundred yards of the driveway, she drove slowly with her lights off, not wanting to wake anyone on the front side of the house. She parked far away and scaled a good bit of the walk to the house on foot. When she got to the cabin, only a single light shone through the window from the kitchen. Through the window on the side of the house, she could see that the coffeepot was on, and this told her exactly where she’d find him.

  She tiptoed to the deck, where the pre-dawn morning air was chilly and moist. The clouds that had hugged this part of the mountain all night were just beginning to
evaporate into the gray light of morning, which made the whole world look like a black and white film. Fall was almost here, she realized. She wished she had thought to bring a sweater. If she had thought much at all, though, she probably would have come to her senses and would not be here. All she could do now was see it through.

  Despite the poor visibility, she knew exactly where to find Dylan. He was out on the furthest deck, where they’d shared a cup of coffee months before. His back was to the house, and he did not move as she approached. She walked softly, not wanting to startle him. She couldn’t tell whether he were looking out at the mountains or even asleep. As she got closer, she saw that he wore a dark knit cap and a hooded sweatshirt.

  “You’re up early,” he said, not turning around. The mountains beyond him hulked like dark purple shadows as the sky surrounding them became a soft bluish pink.

  “I’m up late,” she said. “I drove all night.”

  “Yeah?” he said, his tone unreadable.

  “Yes.” She tried to sound sure of herself. She was anything but.

  He hesitated, and then said tentatively, “William okay with you doing that on your own?”

  She was surprised to hear him come from this angle, until it occurred to her he had no reason to know that she and William weren’t still dating. “William doesn’t get a vote.”

  “Oh,” he said softly. She still couldn’t read him.

  “We’re not together. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  He nodded. “What’s that in your hand?”

  Until then she wasn’t sure he had even looked at her at all. She had almost forgotten the two little notebooks, which she was mostly holding to help her stay focused. “Well, there are two things I came to talk to you about,” she said. “And I brought notes.”

  He looked at her now, curious. “More lists?”

  “Well, yes, sort of,” she conceded.

  “Okay, Scarlett. I think I can reschedule this meeting for later.” He made a sweeping gesture at the mountains in the distance. “You have my attention.”