Acts of Mercy: A Mercy Street Novel

by Mariah Stewart

  There were no cars on the road at so late an hour, and with the company of late-night talk radio, Sam breezed along the highway at a fast clip. He remembered how, as a young driver, he’d traveled this empty stretch of road in his dad’s pickup, feeling like the only life-form on an alien planet. Somewhere in the dark there were night creatures on the prowl, but from behind the wheel of that old Ford truck on a starry night, a guy might feel as if he’d landed where no man had gone before, as the expression went.

  From time to time he looked in his rearview mirror to see if anyone was coming up behind him, but no one did.

  Far up ahead he could see faint lights, and he knew he was nearing the airstrip. He was early, so he slowed down, changed the station from the endless chatter about the upcoming Nebraska football season and by how many points they could be expected to best each opponent, and searched for some music. He’d been hoping for some soft rock, but settled for country, and knew he was lucky to find anything at this hour of the night.

  He passed the tall cyclone fence that surrounded the small airport and took a left into the parking lot. There was a sprawling one-story concrete-block building between the lot and the runway, and one door that had a light over it, so he went inside, where he found a closed ticket desk and a couple of vending machines. The clock over the door leading to the runway was eight minutes fast, according to his watch, so he searched his pockets for change for the soda machine and dropped the coins in. A can landed with a thud that reverberated through the empty room, attracting the attention of the night watchman, who came out of a side room to see who had invaded his space. He and Sam made small talk until they saw the lights from an approaching plane. Sam stood in the window and watched the small craft land effortlessly. Moments later, the plane’s door opened, and steps appeared. Fiona had a bag over her shoulder and another in her hands. She was wearing a white shirt and a black linen skirt that looked as if she’d slept in it.

  Sam tossed his soda can into a trash container and went out to meet her halfway across the tarmac. He put out one hand to take her bag.

  “I have it,” she said. “But thanks.”

  “How was your flight?”

  “Very nice.” She seemed to be deliberately keeping about a foot between them. Sam wasn’t sure why, but he let her have the space.

  She turned back to the plane, and watched the steps retract, the door close, and the plane ready to take off again. She stood in silence till it had taxied down the runway, taken flight, and disappeared into the night sky.

  “Whose plane, if I might ask?”

  “It was Hugh’s. His son, Matt, offered to fly me back here on his way to Chicago. It was the quickest way, so I said yes.” She smiled weakly. “Of course, his wife and kids were on the flight as well, and I’d forgotten just how loud a bunch of teenagers could be. Still, it beat hanging out at LAX by a country mile.”

  The security guard waved and called out, “Night, folks” as they passed through the building, and Sam returned the wave.

  “It’s so quiet out here,” Fiona whispered, as if afraid to break the silence.

  “Nothing around for miles,” he noted. “Well, there is Brightcliffe, about a mile and a half through that pasture.” He pointed across the road. “But they rolled up the sidewalks hours ago.”

  He unlocked the car and put her things in the trunk.

  “Did you come by yourself?” She frowned. “Why didn’t someone come with you?”

  “No need. No one followed me, I can guarantee that. The road between here and Blackstone is straight and flat. There’s nowhere to hide if you’re trying to tail someone. I didn’t see but maybe one or two cars on the way out here, and they were both headed in the opposite direction.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to take any risks, Sam.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Then, to change the subject, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

  “Not so much.”

  “I don’t know why I asked that.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “There’s nothing around for miles except the vending machines inside, but the offerings looked pretty stale to me.”

  “Really, I’m fine.” Fiona buckled her seat belt.

  “We’ll be back at the farm soon. There’s lots of stuff there to dig into.”

  He started the car and drove out of the lot and onto the highway. Within seconds he was up to what he considered traveling speed. He sat back, trying to think of something to say to her.

  Before he could come up with anything that he didn’t think sounded lame, Fiona said, “I’m sorry that I left like that. I should have explained, but I was blindsided when I got the call about Hugh.”

  He looked across the console and met her eyes. “Well, I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry that your friend died.”

  “He was more than just a friend, Sam. He was the father I needed but didn’t have.”

  “I thought your parents were still alive.”

  “They are, but they never treated me as if I were their child.” She stared out the window for a moment. “I’m guessing you saw some of the coverage of Hugh’s funeral, that you saw me there. You were probably a little surprised.”

  “Everyone saw you there, and yeah, everyone was surprised, to say the least. Me, in particular. A little background right about now might be nice.”

  “I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Try where the story begins.”

  “My parents started me in commercials when I was six months old. They found it could be quite lucrative—I was a pretty baby and apparently quite animated—so my mother quit her job to take me to auditions and shoots. I got an agent and she got me a lot of work. When I got a little older, everyone thought I should be on TV. I got lucky, got picked up for a couple of walk-on scenes, then a couple of small speaking parts. Right about then, my mother decided she’d be a better agent than the one I had—the one who’d gotten me all the work—so she fired her. From then on, my mother, as my agent, and my dad, as my manager, controlled my career. When I was four, I auditioned for the part of the lead’s daughter on a new show called McGuire, Boston PD. I got the part. Much to everyone’s surprise, the show lasted for nine seasons.”

  “It shouldn’t have been too much of a surprise,” he said. “It was a damned good show. Drama with the right touch of humor.”

  “You’ve seen it, then.”

  “When it first ran, yeah, I did. I never connected you with little Nora McGuire, though.”

  “No reason you should have. They thought Nora should be this angelic-looking little girl, so they dyed my dark hair blond. As soon as I could, I went back to my natural color.” She was staring out the window again. “Anyway, my parents were the stage parents from hell. They were totally into the Hollywood TV scene. By the time I was nine or ten, I just wanted out. I was going through a very self-conscious stage, and I didn’t want to do it anymore. But when I told my mother I wanted to quit, she went nuts. Went on and on about how I had an obligation to my family, that if I quit I’d be taking the roof from over their heads, and how could I do that to my little brother and sister, not to mention to my parents, who had given up their lives so that I could follow my dream of being a TV star.”

  “Was it?” Sam asked. “Your dream?”

  “When I first started, it was fun. I can’t deny that. Everyone paid a lot of attention to me, made a big fuss over me. But after a while, it became suffocating. I couldn’t go anywhere without people approaching me. I had no friends because I was either studying or on the set most of the day. I became very shy around kids my own age because I didn’t know any. I didn’t know how to interact with other children. So it all got old very quickly. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that it wasn’t my dream I was following, it was my mom’s. She liked the spotlight, liked being Nora McGuire’s mother.”

  “Sounds like they were getting a lot more out of it than you were.”

  “You have no idea, Sam,” she told him. “I grew to hate the whole thi
ng. The only real friend I had was Hugh Davenport, my TV dad. When I got upset, he was the one who calmed me down. When I was depressed, he talked me through it. When I needed help with my homework, he worked with me between scenes. He was the one who gave me advice, he was the one I turned to when I needed someone to talk to. After a time, our TV roles sort of slipped into our real lives. He was more of a dad to me than my real dad ever was. Sometimes he took me home to be with his kids and do things with them—he had three sons and two daughters. He and his wife were the parents I needed, the parents I’d wished my mom and dad would be. There was so much warmth in their home, and never any in my own.”

  She smiled in the darkness. “Hugh understood what I was going through because he’d been a child star, too. He saw my parents pushing me into roles I didn’t want—I made a movie every year after the TV season ended. He saw how lonely I was, and he even tried to talk to my folks, but they just got pissed off at him. Anyway, by the time I was about seven, I decided I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to be a cop, just like the one he played on TV. I never wanted to be anything else.”

  “How did your parents take that?”

  “How do you think?” She laughed dryly. “I was thirteen when the show went off the air. I did a few other shows—two sitcoms and a medical drama, but none of them lasted beyond a season or two. I did a couple more movies, but I knew that when I turned eighteen, I was outta there. Hugh supported me in that, helped me to look for colleges. He and his wife actually went on a cross-country trip with me and one of their sons to look at schools. My parents never forgave him for supporting my decision to leave the business. I was their meal ticket, their entrance into the Hollywood scene. I was putting an end to life as they knew it.”

  “Have they forgiven you?”

  “Not really. It was my fault that the party invitations stopped coming. My fault that they had to sell the big house and move to a more modest home in a more modest neighborhood. My fault that they couldn’t afford private school for my sister and brother. Everything negative that ever happened to anyone in my family was my fault.”

  “Fiona, I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “I wish you’d told me before.”

  “I never tell anyone. Everyone thinks, oh, poor thing, her parents pushed her into this fabulous career. But you can’t imagine what that was like. I was a child who never had a childhood. I had responsibilities that a kid of six or seven should never have to bear. The expectations were just too much for me. I’d made enough to pay my way through college, and I did work a bit over vacations, so I didn’t walk away empty-handed. Unfortunately, my parents never invested a dime.”

  “What are they doing now?”

  “Managing my brother’s music career.” She rolled her eyes.

  “When was the last time you spoke with them?”

  “It’s been a while,” she said softly. “I call from time to time and leave messages, but I never get a call back.”

  “Well, that explains a lot,” Sam said. “Why you never went to regular school, why you never went to the prom or played team sports. I’m really sorry you had to go through all that. No kid should ever have their childhood stolen from them, for any reason, especially by their own parents.” Sam eased up on the gas pedal. “I can understand why Hugh Davenport meant so much to you that you wanted to follow in his footsteps. Well, his TV footsteps.”

  “I guess I was young enough that I believed he really was a cop. I idolized him. What a shock when I got old enough to realize he really wasn’t a police officer, but by then the idea was planted in my head. I was going to be a cop, just like Hugh. He told me if I was serious about it, though, that I should go all the way and aim for the FBI, so I did.”

  “Have you ever regretted it?”

  “Not for a minute. I really believe this is what I was meant to do. So in a way, I guess it all turned out all right. Maybe I wouldn’t have wanted a career in law enforcement if I hadn’t been on that show.”

  “That’s what my mom calls making lemonade when life gives you lemons.”

  “You don’t have a choice, really. Hugh used to say, ‘Control your life or life will control you.’” Fiona stifled a yawn.

  “Had he been ill?”

  She shook her head no. “Hugh was the picture of health. You hear about people who are never sick a day in their lives and then one day, bam! Gone? That was Hugh.”

  “What happened?”

  “Heart attack. He just turned sixty-eight last month. His wife, Elisa, said he never complained about anything. The doctors said it happens that way sometimes.” She seemed to consider this. “I do think he’d have preferred this way to hanging on with all manner of issues to deal with—he hated anything that threatened to slow him down—but damn, I will miss him so much.”

  Sam reached across the console and took her hand. She squeezed it and rested her head back against her seat.

  “When was the last time you slept?” he asked.

  “What day is it now?”

  “That long, eh?”

  “I slept on the flight out to LA, then a few hours here and a few hours there.”

  “Why don’t you try to get in a few winks now?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “I’m suggesting it.”

  “Maybe if I close my eyes, just for a minute …”

  When Fiona awoke, the car was motionless. For a moment, she thought they’d arrived at the farm and that Sam had let her sleep in the car, rather than wake her. She was okay with that. It had been so good of him to come out in the middle of the night and drive out into the middle of nowhere to get her, and she really hadn’t thanked him adequately.

  I’m sure I can think of some way to express my gratitude, she thought, smiling.

  “I hope that smile’s for me,” she heard him say.

  She opened her eyes and glanced over to the driver’s seat, where Sam sat, resting back against the door. She sat up and looked out the window. Through the windshield, she could see a lake surrounded by trees and wrapped in mist, bathed in the palest light imaginable.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Shelby Lake,” he replied. “This was the great make-out place when I was in high school.”

  Sam turned on the radio and increased the volume.

  “Come on.” He got out of the car and gestured for her to follow him. She unbuckled her seat belt and pushed open the door.

  He’d left his door open and the sweet sound of Dolly Parton’s “Heartbreaker” floated out around them. He walked around the car and took her hand in his, then slid his other arm around her waist.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Taking you to the prom.”

  She laughed and they slow danced, their bodies close, then closer. Dolly was followed by a more uptempo “Summer Nights” by Rascal Flatts, then Martina McBride’s “Happy Girl.”

  “I guess country’s pretty big at the proms out here,” she said, cheek to cheek with Sam for another slow number.

  “Sorry. It’s the only station you can get until you’re a little closer to Henderson Falls.”

  “I don’t mind,” she told him. “I always kind of liked Dolly. She always sounds so sincere.”

  He laughed softly in her ear, then spun her around and dipped her low. “What would a prom be without flowers?” He paused to snap off a stem of black-eyed Susans. “Not exactly roses, but the best I can do in a pinch.”

  “They’re actually one of my favorites, so you’re batting a thousand tonight, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “You mean this morning.” Sam pointed across the lake to where the first hint of the new day began to appear.

  Suddenly overwhelmed by it all—the grief of losing Hugh, the beauty of the morning, the sheer sweetness of the man who held her—she felt the tears build inside but fought against letting them fall, knowing that once they started, there was no telling when, if ever, they would stop.

  When the first sob broke, it was with
a strangled cry followed by a surge of weeping that startled even her. She covered her face with her hands, as if to hide from the outpouring of her own pain.

  “It’s okay, baby, let it out,” Sam whispered in her ear as he backed against the car and brought her with him, leaning her against his body and holding her as close as he could. “It’s been a bad week for you. Let it go, Fiona. Cry it all out …”

  As far as she could remember, no one had ever seen her cry for real. On screen, sure, when the part called for it. But not in real life. There’d been few people she trusted enough that she would let them see this much of her. But there was no stopping the rush that had been building inside her since the moment she’d gotten the call about Hugh. Miraculously, she felt no distress, no compulsion to protect herself against Sam. She simply let it go, as he had quietly prompted her to do.

  When no tears were left to fall and her legs had weakened and threatened to betray her, Sam’s strong hands held her up and rocked her slowly, side to side, as if she were a child.

  “The front of your shirt is soaking wet.” She sniffed and with her hands smoothed out the fabric, too embarrassed to look him in the eye. “And it’s got mascara on it.”

  “We’ll leave the windows down on the way home and it’ll air dry. And as for that black stuff”—he looked down at the front of his shirt—“hey, it’s only a shirt.”

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You’ve suffered a great loss, Fiona. You’re going to be mourning for a long time.” He leaned back and looked down into her eyes. “You don’t have to be the iron woman all the time, you know.”

  “I don’t usually lose control like that.”

  “I promise not to tell anyone.” His lips were close to her ear. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  She nodded, wanted to tell him that she knew that all of her secrets would be safe with him. She turned her head to catch his mouth with hers, and kissed him, silently begging him to kiss her back with everything he had. She sunk her hands into his hair and held on. His hands skimmed her body, slowly at first, gliding over her breasts over her shirt, and her hips over her skirt in gentle waves. But soon she wanted—needed—to feel his hands on her skin. She pulled her shirt from the waistband and started to unbutton it, her fingers trembling on the buttons, his mouth following the slow exposure of her skin. He lifted her, turning them both around so that her back was against the hard metal of the car, pinning her there with his body while he touched and tasted every bit of her that was exposed.