A Time to Surrender

by Sally John

  “In my purse, behind the couch.”

  “That’s handy.”

  “I know where Erik gets his smart mouth.”

  “That’s my nerves talking.”

  “I understand.” She paused. “My vanity is talking for me. The reason my gun is not tucked into my waistband under a big shirt is because I’m trying my best to resemble a svelte model.”

  Claire laughed. “Rosie, he’s nuts about you. His svelte model days are so over.”

  “You’re sweet to say that.”

  “It’s true.” She gave the young woman a one-armed hug as they walked. “The gun is on my mind because Indio and Lexi have Ben’s shotgun loaded. Lexi planned to sleep with it on the hide-a-bed in Nana’s front room.”

  Rosie groaned.

  “Ben taught both of them how to use it years ago.”

  “And I’m sure they practice diligently.” She shook her head. “I’ll check on them later. Claire, I know we talked already, but I need to go over a few things. Did the guy threaten you in any way?”

  “No. He was friendly.” She rehearsed the encounter yet again in her mind. “But afterward, when I was driving away, I felt like I do after I’ve spotted a rattlesnake and made it to safe ground.”

  “By then your body was on adrenaline overload. You did an amazing job talking to him.”

  “I kept hearing your advice.”

  “Good.”

  They stopped on the wraparound porch outside the master-suite door. The fountain was not running, but every solar light along the paths and wall lamps by guest room doors were turned on, providing soft glows. The corner spotlights bathed most of the courtyard in a bright light.

  “Claire, will you describe him for me again?”

  “Tall and—”

  “Erik tall?”

  “No. He was rangy. I think that made him seem taller than he really was. Does that make sense?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Somewhere between Erik and Danny. Otherwise he was just medium. Medium-brown hair—”

  “Medium Danny’s hair?”

  “No. Darker than Danny’s. Shorter than Danny’s and straight. Narrow face. Pointy chin. Blue jeans, black T-shirt. He seemed at least thirty.”

  “You said he wore sunglasses so you didn’t see his eyes. Tell me about his accent again.”

  “It was very slight. It made me think Canadian. You know how some of them do that thing with their vowels, sort of round them off?”

  Rosie chuckled. “I know what you mean. Anything else?”

  She shut her eyes and pictured him again. What was it? When he turned briefly and nodded up the road. “A mole.” She opened her eyes. “Below, almost behind, his right ear.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Do you think it’s right not to tell Skylar?”

  Rosie did not reply, but Claire had been around her enough to recognize when she was measuring her words before speaking.

  At last she said, “This is the restricted territory, but I consider you as in the need-to-know column. The physical description you just gave me matches one we got from a witness who saw a guy emerging from the side of the church shortly before the bomb exploded.” She paused. “Enough time to light a long fuse and get out of the way. So, yes, it’s right not to tell Skylar.”

  Claire leaned against the door. “Oh, no.”

  “Try not to worry, Claire. From Danny’s report, I really don’t think she could have been part of this. I suspect that her path crossed with this guy’s at some point in the past. ‘Annie Wells’ and ‘Skylar Pierson’ are most likely pseudonyms. Nothing shows up under either.”

  “Can’t you just ask her about it all?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I should have listened to Danny. He didn’t trust her from the start. We should have gone the traditional route. Application, background check, so on and so forth.”

  “Well, I like Danny but I trust your mother-in-law more. I trust Indio’s insight, her intuition. I think you do too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Skylar was a direct answer to prayer. And I trust what you see. You’ve seen Skylar’s heart.”

  Claire gazed at the young woman, awed as she had been before at Rosie’s own insight. “You have too.”

  “Yep. Now get some rest.”

  Claire almost laughed in her face.

  Indio.” Claire whispered into the phone as she snuggled under the covers on her bed. “What do we do?”

  “Pray, of course,” her mother-in-law whispered back.

  Claire had her own need-to-know column, and Indio was most definitely in it. She had told her everything she’d learned from Rosie without the policewoman’s permission.

  “Dear,” Indio said, “you knew that, didn’t you?”

  “This one is a stretch for me. I mean this is all about domestic terrorism, Indio. The police are involved. Jenna was hurt, her friend hurt worse, half a dozen others injured, part of a church demolished. And I talked face-to-face with the guy who was probably responsible!”

  “You feel afraid.”

  “Yeah!”

  Indio began to pray softly. She thanked God for His goodness. She asked Him to camp angels around the property. She prayed for the healing of Skylar’s soul. She prayed that the creepy guy would come to accept the Lord’s love for him. She asked for God’s peace to rest on them all.

  “Amen.” Claire breathed out the anxiety. Hearing the breadth of Indio’s faith in her prayers always produced a calm. Would she ever get to that point of complete expectation that God would respond?

  Claire said, “Should we tell Danny?”

  “Rosie didn’t?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Technically it’s her place.”

  “I think he’s in love with Skylar.”

  “Yes, he most certainly is.”

  “Certainly is? Indio, how do you know that?”

  She chuckled in her enigmatic way. “Just let it go, Claire. Let it all go and get some rest.”

  Maybe she could now.

  As long as she didn’t ponder the question of how she would ever make it through life’s journey without holding Indio’s hand.

  Forty-six

  The kitchen clock chimed eleven. Skylar let it resonate through her, hoping to find solace in the somber repetitive tone.

  It didn’t happen.

  She poured chocolate batter into a baking pan. The brownies weren’t needed until noon the next day, but if she stopped working she would go insane.

  Rosie’s report had burst over her like fireworks. Mesmerized, Skylar sat rooted to the chair, watching each flare light up and illuminate her guilt, shame, and fear. As the flames died out, hot ash rained down on her. It singed every exposed emotion, cauterizing them until she felt nothing. She spoke and moved by rote, eventually leaving Danny and the others in the sala.

  Now, alone in the kitchen, she felt a burning sensation. Frantic for a salve to ease the pain of her wounds, she scurried about doing unnecessary chores. There was absolutely no way she could hoof it to civilization this time of night. Not because of mountain lions, snakes, and coyotes but because, at the moment, she really wasn’t sure she could find her way out of a paper bag. The thought of maneuvering the Hideaway’s three hundred acres with its neighboring ranches of thousand-plus acres and the dark highway void of traffic made her want to puke.

  Danny would say pray. Indio would say God was good. Claire would beam and say God was listening to the prayers of her heart.

  What did they know? God might answer their prayers but they were all good people. They didn’t know what she knew.

  She knew what Rosie had explained. She knew way more than what Rosie had explained.

  Fin Harrod made the bomb. He knew the chemicals, how to combine them, how to pack them. He’d chosen a cardboard tube this time, deciding by some sick logic that he’d forgo the pipe bomb. Major destruction was not his purpose.

  He hid the bomb in such a way as to pr
otect it from the elements. He may have dismantled the church’s sprinkler system. The bomb’s fuse was long enough so that after lighting it, he had time to walk—not run—away.

  Skylar picked up the baking pan and headed across the kitchen toward the wall oven.

  That tricky clue Rosie had mentioned?

  Wishful thinking on the cops’ part. Fin didn’t leave a signature or a calling card. He was one of the truly evil ones. He did not want to get caught. He bragged to no one but his closest friend, Duke, who would have been, without a doubt, in the crowd at the protest.

  Duke, who could tail an FBI agent and not get caught.

  Duke, who could have easily tailed Skylar to the parking garage and Claire’s car, noted the license plate, traced the number—“Skylar.”

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. The pan slid from her hands and crashed onto the floor. Batter flew everywhere. “Danny!”

  “Sorry. We should get a bell on that door.”

  “You could just knock!” She knelt and turned over the pan. What chocolate hadn’t splattered across the floor and cabinets lay in a puddle beneath it. “Look at this mess.”

  “At least it wasn’t a glass pan.” He hunched down beside her, a dishcloth in his hands.

  “Would you just get out of my kitchen?”

  “Why don’t you get out of it?” He sopped up a glob of batter. “You don’t need these brownies tonight.”

  “Thanks for the news flash.”

  “I thought you were coming back in the sala to play cards with us.”

  Play games? Yeah, right. She ignored his comment. “Bring over the paper towels. The whole roll. And the mop.”

  They worked side by side on the floor, wiping it and the cabinets, not speaking.

  At last he said, “I am sorry, Skylar. I’ll finish. I’ll even whip up another batch of brownies and bake them. I’m not totally lame in following a recipe off a box mix.”

  The sound of his too-familiar voice talking about inane subjects began to soothe her nerves. Wally Cleaver was just such a nice guy. Had they really held hands and talked like friends that afternoon? It seemed like a lifetime ago. Somebody else’s life.

  “It’s not from a box,” she muttered.

  “Hmm. That’s explains the nuts and chocolate chips and melted caramel.” He sniffed a paper towel. “And German chocolate cake? Just leave the recipe out.”

  “It’s out and you’re hovering.”

  “Yeah, but you love it now that we’re, well, you know.”

  Three hours ago she would have given him a flirty glance and offered a smart remark. Not now. Probably not ever.

  Just when they were getting started.

  He bumped his shoulder against hers. “Seriously, get out of here. I promise I won’t eat more than one brownie when they’re done. And I won’t let Erik have more than three.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Give it up, Sky.” He dried his hands with a paper towel. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  The waterfall sound of his tone had become the salve she longed for. It covered her wounds, diminishing the pain so that now she was able to feel the exhaustion and to hear the voice of reason. Did it really matter that she alone took care of the kitchen? Did it even matter that the brownies burned or were underbaked or if he and Erik ate the whole pan?

  Did it matter that she knew the bomber?

  Danny pulled her to her feet and steered her out the door. She didn’t resist.

  They walked through the courtyard in a comfortable silence, passed the last guest room, and rounded the corner. She remembered the first time Indio had walked this route with her.

  And she wanted to cry.

  At her door, Danny gestured with a flourish. “Ta-da. The ‘oh, by the way’ room, m’lady.” He leaned over and planted a sweet kiss on her cheek as if it were the most natural thing in the world between them. “Sleep well.”

  “’Night.” She turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  “You lock your door, right?”

  “No.”

  “Will you tonight?” He stood only inches from her, but his face was hidden in shadow.

  “Why?”

  “I forget,” he murmured.

  She sensed the shift in the tenor of his voice. “Danny, you really don’t know the first thing about me.”

  “You keep saying that like I give a rip. We are the sum of our past, mistakes and all. The sum that I’ve experienced in you is one that I care for deeply.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you either, but I will. It’s part of life, but you know what they say. It sure beats the alternative.”

  In the darkness she felt more than saw his gaze on her. She knew she should step away from him.

  But his words offered her such hope, his presence such security, his low rumble of a voice the promise of a physical expression of it all and more.

  He touched her cheek gently, cupped her face in his hands, and then he kissed her. He kissed her again. And again.

  That solace she craved was freely poured into her. She swam in it, soon lost to all pain and fear.

  When at last they parted, she thought she must be dreaming. She’d never felt so incredibly cherished.

  He laughed softly. “Whew.” And then he walked away.

  Skylar carried the gift he’d given her through the door and into her little ‘oh, by the way’ room.

  How was she ever going to leave?

  Forty-seven

  Ms. Mason.”

  Jenna looked up, surprised to see two students standing at her desk. Aliah and Kaiya, best friends who cruised through English, totally complacent with pulling down average grades, yet capable of reaching the stars.

  Jenna twiddled a pen in her hand. After the previous night’s crash course on group grieving, she had made it through her first Friday class drained of patience and energy. Hitting a neutral tone was out of the question.

  She said sternly, “I thought the bell rang and my prep period started.”

  The girls exchanged an uh-oh glance. Their flat-ironed hair resembled stiff brooms, one magenta, one peacock blue. That was this week’s color.

  Kaiya, of the blue shade, turned a determined expression to her. “We wanted to try out a couple of metaphors.”

  “Or similes,” Aliah added. “We get them confused.”

  “’Kay,” Jenna replied. That idiom was foreign to her, but it was how Amber talked. Modeling her friend’s lingo and attitude seemed the easiest way to make herself more approachable to the kids. “Bullhead Mason” ranked right up there with “Princess” as the identity she most wanted to lose.

  She smiled at the girls. The fact that they actually stayed after class to talk with her proved that change was in the air. “Go ahead.”

  Aliah cleared her throat. “You look like something the cat swatted, mauled, and dragged in. Is that metaphor or simile?”

  “Uh.” She blinked. “What do you think?”

  “Simile because of the word like.”

  Jenna nodded. “Good.”

  Kaiya said, “How about this one: if you were a towel, it’d be past time to put you in the rag drawer. Metaphor?”

  “I think you know. What’s going on, ladies?”

  Again the exchanged glance. The eyes they turned back to her, though, glistened.

  Kaiya said, “You don’t look like yourself. Is your husband okay?”

  Jenna bit her lip. She’d gotten to bed about two that morning after returning home from Miranda’s. The short hours between two and six hadn’t exactly been a beauty rest. She’d thrown on slacks and cotton shirt, no jewelry except for a pair of earrings, her hair in a need-a-shampoo-yesterday ponytail.

  The girls were right. Their worry touched her. That made three of them on the verge of bawling.

  She chose the teasing route. “He’s fine, but I’m miffed now. You’re really more concerned about him than me, aren’t you? Probably because he’s cu
ter than I am.”

  They giggled. Aliah said, “Mrs. Mason, he is sooo hot.”

  Kaiya sighed dramatically. “What’s it like being married to him?”

  “Honestly, right now our marriage is a royal pain in the neck.” Whoa. That might have been too much information.

  “Cliché, right?” Aliah grinned.

  Jenna rolled her eyes.

  Kaiya’s smile changed quickly to a grimace. “We are really sorry that he’s overseas.”

  Not sure what might come out of her mouth next, Jenna stuck to nodding.

  Aliah said, “And class was a major bore today. You might as well go home and let the sub take over again.”

  Kaiya gasped and pulled on her friend’s arm. “I can’t believe you said that. Gee whiz. Mrs. M, can we have a late pass? Please?”

  Mrs. M. Jenna liked that. She would have given the girls passes to a rock concert.

  After they left, she remained at her desk, too exhausted for physical exertion. The girls were right about the way she looked and the boring class. What counted at the moment, though, was that Jenna was there, plugging forward, not giving in.

  Two things had haunted her through the night: the image of a hopeless Evie and the unsettling phone conversation with Kevin. They still shadowed her when she finally got up after the sleepless hours.

  As she had stood unseeing in front of her closet, she recalled a conversation with Rosie. Jenna had asked the policewoman about the horrible time the previous spring when she had shot Erik. Although Rosie acted in self-defense and Erik survived, the mere thought of the incident still sent shivers through Jenna. She could not understand how afterwards Rosie was able to go back to the streets, back to her regular job.

  Rosie replied that long before it happened, she had learned to compartmentalize thoughts and feelings. She would simply lock the intrusive ones inside a mental closet, freeing her mind to focus in the here and now.

  The trick was working fairly well. One class down, four to go, the boring aspect didn’t count. What was it Kevin used to say to get himself pumped? Ooh-rah. That was it. Well, ooh-rah for Jenna.

  At the sound of a rap on her open door, she looked up to see Cade.

  “Hey.” He strode across the room. “Got a minute?”