Finding You

by Maureen Child

  “You okay?” he asked suddenly, knowing she wouldn’t thank him for butting in, but what was family for, anyway?

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You know what I mean. Carla—”

  “Nick, I love you. But butt out.”

  “That’s plain enough, I guess.” He headed for the dining room door. “You coming?”

  “In a minute.” When he was gone, she slapped her hands on the cool tile countertop and felt the chill seep through her. He meant well. Heck, the whole family meant well. But this wasn’t something that was going to be “cured.” It was just something she had to live with. And that would be a heck of a lot easier to do if everyone would quit worrying about her. Shaking her head, she opened the fridge and picked up the pitcher of iced tea. Then half-turning, she paused for another look at the lamplit cottage in the darkness before joining the family.

  * * *

  “You’ll like it here,” Jackson Wyatt told his daughter as they walked through the small house. He hit every light switch as they passed, showing Reese each room and hoping for a response he knew darn well wouldn’t come.

  Disappointment roared to life inside him, but he fought it down. Couldn’t expect miracles—though a part of him had been expecting just that. But no. Not after a year. When the change came, it wouldn’t be in one magical moment. It would come in fits and starts. Tiny steps. That’s the way his little girl would come back to him.

  And she would come back. He refused to think otherwise.

  “It’s a big kitchen, isn’t it?” he asked as the light flashed on, revealing a long, narrow room. The walls were a startling white, with cool green-and-blue tile counters and a scarred wood floor. Glass-fronted cabinets with doily inserts completed the picture. A little too cutesy for his taste, he told himself. Sort of like fairy-tale land. But it was only temporary. Three months. A summer. The most important three months of his life, but hey. No pressure.

  “It’s nice, huh? Different from home, though,” he said, and wondered if Reese was as tired of hearing him talk as he was. But he kept going. Because if he didn’t talk, then the silence would be so oppressive, neither of them would survive it. “But different’s good once in a while, too. Makes a nice change.”

  He glanced down at the child holding his hand. Six years old and beautiful, Reese Wyatt looked like the picture-perfect all-American girl. Long blond hair, pulled back into a crooked ponytail, because frankly, he was no better at doing her hair than he had been when the job had fallen to him a year ago. Her big blue eyes inspected the room with interest she wouldn’t voice. But at least it was something. She was paying attention. Looking around.

  One of his clients had suggested this tiny seaside tourist town as a getaway and Jackson had leaped at the idea. At that point, he’d been willing to try anything to reach Reese. He’d called a local realtor, rented the place sight unseen, and taken a chance. But the back of his mind had been filled with doubts up until this moment, when he saw a spark of interest in the child’s eyes.

  This had been a good idea, he told himself firmly. Getting away from Chicago. From the house that held too many memories. From the well-meaning people who clucked their tongues and shook their heads and offered vague attempts at help.

  Reese turned her head and looked up at him with the same solemn expression that had become so much a part of her in the last year. His heart ached as he recalled a different child. One with enough enthusiasm for three healthy kids. In his mind, there was an indistinct memory of her voice. He couldn’t quite recall the exact pitch or the sound of her laughter, but even in his dreams he could still hear her calling for him.

  Grinding his back teeth into powder, he pushed that thought aside, forced a smile he didn’t feel, and asked, “So, you hungry?”

  She nodded.

  He let go of her hand long enough to smooth the palm of his hand across her forehead, pushing her too-long bangs out of her eyes. “What do you say to a cheese sandwich?”

  She nodded again, then held out both hands, mashing her palms together.

  “Ah,” he said. “You want it grilled and smashed.”

  Another nod, accompanied this time by half a smile, and Jackson felt like someone had just pinned a medal to his chest. If she could smile, she could speak. If she could speak, he’d be able to reach her again. He’d be able to find his daughter, locked somewhere inside the lost little girl in front of him.

  All he needed was time.

  Unfortunately, there wasn’t much left.

  “You got it, kiddo.” Pointing at the kitchen table and chairs on the other side of the room, he said, “Take a seat and watch your father, the absolute world master of grilled cheese sandwiches, go to work.”

  He grabbed a pan from beneath the counter, then crossed to the refrigerator, where he’d already stored their so-far meager supplies. Have to find a store soon—at least before the frozen dinners ran out—he reminded himself as he snatched up the cheese, bread, and margarine.

  Carrying it all back to the counter, he kept up a steady stream of conversation, more to fill the silence than because he thought Reese might respond.

  “We’ll go into town soon,” he said. “Then maybe take a walk. Look around.” His gaze lifted to the darkness beyond the window and landed on a two-story house not far off. Every light in the place was on, and even from this distance, Jackson saw shadows of people moving around.

  But he looked away quickly enough. He wasn’t interested in getting to know the neighbors. This summer was about Reese. About reaching her before she was lost to him forever.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IT WAS A PERFECT morning.

  Carla plopped down onto one of the two forest green chairs on her front porch and propped her feet on the railing. Cradling her cup of coffee between her palms, she took a sip, sighed as the glorious liquid slid down her throat, and then leaned her head against the chair back.

  “Nice, huh, Abbey?”

  The golden retriever beside her stretched out on the cool cement porch and slapped her tail lazily.

  “Yeah, I’m with you.”

  She loved her family, but a long evening with them was enough to convince Carla that living alone was just this side of heaven. And maybe that’s part of the reason she wasn’t interested in having a man around. Right now, there was nobody talking. Nobody making demands on her time. Nobody expecting anything from her.

  Nobody to let down.

  Okay, steer the brain away from that train of thought.

  Reaching over to the table beside her, she picked up a biscuit for the dog and, saying, “Treat,” tossed it. Abbey caught it on the fly, crunched it noisily, then laid her head back down as if exhausted from the effort. Smiling, Carla picked up an Oreo for herself and popped it into her mouth. Cookies and caffeine: the breakfast of champions.

  Another sip and she felt herself starting to wake up. Slowly. Like it should be done. None of this leap out of bed, dress, hop in a car, and head for some office where you had to be nice to people you didn’t like so you wouldn’t lose the job you hated.

  Of course it wasn’t always like that. Sometimes you had a good job. She had. For five years, she’d worked it and made herself into one of the best in the business. But then it had all gone to hell one fine day and now she was here. Pretending to everyone, including herself, that she didn’t miss it.

  A pang in her chest eased away into a whisper of discomfort. She was all right. She was doing fine. She had her savings and the money she made from training search dogs. Everything was great. Right?

  Carla frowned, ate another cookie, and had a coffee chaser. Thinking about it wouldn’t change anything. It would only serve to remind her of the very thing she spent most of her time trying to forget. It was done. Over. At twenty-eight, she was starting fresh. And here in Chandler, she’d make it work.

  Her bare feet crossed at the ankle, her denim shorts hitting just above her
knee, she tugged at the fabric of her red T-shirt, then settled back again. Whatever the weather, she started her days with this morning ritual. Coffee, cookies, and a seat on the porch where she could watch the world go by. If the world actually passed this way. Which it didn’t very often. Oh, there was the occasional car out on the road, fifty yards from the porch. But the street wasn’t exactly Highway 101.

  Chandler was a good mile to the east. Here on the outskirts, her closest neighbors were her mother—sometimes too close—on one side and, on the other, the Garvey cottage. Her gaze slid in that direction and she found herself wondering just who she’d be dealing with this year.

  But then, dealing with a new batch of tourists every year was just part and parcel of living in Chandler. Most of the town’s economy depended on a good summer, with people coming in from all over to stay in the B and Bs and cruise the art galleries and visit the local winery and the beach. By the end of summer, the fall crowd was trickling in, to watch the incredible show of color that Mother Nature put on every year. Winter was a time to relax and enjoy the quiet; then spring arrived and the first of the tourists began the whole cycle all over again.

  But besides the tourist trade, there were the local commercial fishermen who ran a fresh fish market at the dock and the outlying ranches that fed the farmers’ market every Thursday. They were within commuting distance of San Jose, and Monterey wasn’t much farther. Of course, with one movie theater and no mall to speak of, the teenagers didn’t have a lot to do, which led to plenty of mischief making. The clinic was too small for a growing town, and environmentalists held regular protests against the timber company. But other than that, Chandler was great.

  Quiet.

  Relaxing.

  Damn near perfect.

  Then the phone rang.

  She scowled as Abbey lifted her head. “I know. It’s an ungodly hour for anyone to call. Let’s ignore it.”

  The dog flapped her tail against the porch again as the phone shrieked a second time, an irritating intrusion.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll answer it. But I won’t be nice.”

  She stepped over the dog, crossed the porch, and went into the house. The phone was just inside the front door on a battered table that Carla liked to think of as “distressed.” Sounded so much more trendy than “junk.” Soft morning sunlight splintered through the oval stained-glass pane set above the picture window in the living room. The blue of the sea and the emerald green of the trees sent shafts of color dancing about what would otherwise be a plain but comfortable room.

  And the morning quiet shattered again with the third insistent ring. Snatching up the receiver, she nearly snarled, “What?”

  “Nice. Still your charming self in the morning, I see.”

  “Mike.” At the familiar voice, Carla’s hand tightened on the receiver. Strange. Even the sunlight seemed a little dimmer.

  “Ah, she remembers.”

  “What’s not to remember?” she said, hoping her voice sounded lighter than she felt at the moment. It was way too early to be talking to anyone. Let alone Mike Shaner. She thought about going out to retrieve her coffee cup from the porch, then decided against it. She’d just get rid of him quickly—then try to reclaim her morning.

  “Look,” he said, and she heard the tone he would always use when he wanted her to go out on a job. For years he’d been laboring under the impression that he oozed charm. And maybe the people still working for Searchers had to go along with that. But she didn’t work for him anymore, did she? “You been watching the news?”

  “No.” She never watched the news anymore. She’d sworn off. Too many disasters. Too many crises. Too many people needing help that she couldn’t give. Nervously she walked around the room, straightening picture frames on the wall, kicking a throw pillow onto the sofa, then pausing long enough to write her name in the dust on the coffee table. Really had to get to that, she thought.

  She picked up the postcard of an aqua blue sea rushing toward a pristine white beach and wished she’d gone with her best friend on that cruise. Then she wouldn’t have been here to answer the phone.

  Anything, she told herself. Think of anything but what Mike was calling about.

  “Do you get the news out in that backwater you live in?”

  Her eyes rolled. According to the gospel of Mike, any place outside of LA qualified as the boondocks.

  “Not only do we have TV, but we may get a new thing called a refrigerator. The whole town is chipping in together. We’re going to share it. It’s very exciting.”

  “One cup of coffee or two so far?”

  “One.”

  “God help me.”

  She sighed. “What do you want, Mike?”

  “We have a situation.”

  “Not interested.” Her stomach twisted, her palms began to sweat, and every bit of moisture in her mouth dried up. But despite the sick pool of dread swimming inside, she was also honest enough to admit, if only to herself, that her heartbeat quickened with a splash of the old adrenaline. “I told you that when I quit, Mike.”

  “It’s been two years. Get over it.”

  She squeezed that receiver until it should have snapped. “Go to hell.”

  “Damn it, Carla.” She could almost see him shoving one hand through his hair and then tugging at the knot in his ever-present tie. He probably had one cigarette burning in the ashtray and another one tucked into the corner of his mouth. The man was a walking ulcer waiting to happen. Of course, the six-pack of Mylanta he chugged almost daily would probably keep that threat at bay.

  “I mean it, Mike. I meant it two years ago and nothing’s changed.” Just her life. Just her dreams. Just everything.

  “It’s a waste, that’s what it is. You’re the best, Carla, and you should be doing what you were born to do.”

  “I am.”

  “That’s bullshit. You’re hiding.”

  “If I’m hiding, how did you find me?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I do. And you know what I mean when I say no.”

  “Well, how about loaning me Abbey?”

  Carla yanked the receiver away, glared at it, then slapped it back to her ear. “Abbey’s my dog and you damn well know it. We’re a team. Nobody else works her but me.”

  “Fine. Work her.”

  “We’re retired.”

  “You can’t retire; it’s in your blood.”

  “I’ve had a transfusion.” She could be just as stubborn as Mike. More so, with only one cup of coffee in her. “What about the dogs I sold you last year? They’re excellent. Use them.”

  “They are excellent. You and Abbey are better.”

  She walked back toward the front door and stared out the screen. Fastening her gaze on the line of trees in the distance and drawing up an image of the ocean just beyond, she tried to center herself. Fought to remember that her life was here, now. Not in LA. Not in the middle of a disaster area. Not trooping through misery trying to keep a knot of hope alive.

  She couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t be the one to look into tear-filled eyes and crush the last tiny flicker of optimism. If that made her a selfish bitch, then she’d just have to live with it.

  “Listen, Carla.…”

  Outside, Abbey stood up and walked across the porch, ears up, head tilted, obviously scenting something unusual. Carla took a step closer, watching her dog, not even listening to Mike anymore, though his voice rattled on, no more than a droning sound, a distraction. The dog stepped off the porch and headed around the side of the house, out of sight.

  “Mike,” Carla interrupted him. “I gotta go.”

  “No, damn it—”

  “Bye.” She hung up, and hit the front door. Crossing the porch in a couple of strides, she followed after Abbey, more curious than worried. Nothing ever happened in Chandler. It was one of the last bastions of small-town life in America. No one locked their doors. Neighbors watched out for one another. And no secret had a shelf life of longer
than twenty-four hours.

  She’d grown up here. Gone off to the big city to find herself, and when she didn’t like what she found she’d come back home. It hadn’t been easy to swallow her pride—admit she’d failed—but what was that old saying? “Home is the place that, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” Well, she was home again. To where she felt safe. And Abbey getting spooked wasn’t going to spoil that feeling.

  * * *

  Jackson shoved his right hand through his hair and squeezed the telephone receiver in his left. “Damn it. Where could she have gone?” He paced back and forth in front of the wide lead-paned picture window gracing the house he’d rented for the summer. As he listened to the phone ringing on the other end of the line, his gaze scanned the grassy slope that led from the house down to the road. Nothing. No sign of her. His heart tightened in his chest. Less than twenty-four hours here and she was missing. For chrissakes, was this some kind of sign? Was somebody trying to tell him something?

  Like maybe … You’re out of your depth, Wyatt.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Yeah, you could say that. Hell, you could say that about the last year. But that wasn’t really the issue here, was it?

  “Hell, yes, there’s a problem!” Jackson nearly shouted. “My daughter’s missing.”

  “Who is this?” Tony Candellano asked, swinging his feet down off the corner of his desk and rolling his chair closer. Reaching for a pen, he grabbed a pad of paper.

  “Wyatt. Jackson Wyatt.”

  Instantly Tony’s mind raced, going through every one of the names and faces of the people in and around Chandler. A man in his position got to know the people who elected him. And a town the size of Chandler couldn’t hide a stranger for long. But the name Wyatt didn’t ring any bells.

  “Where are you located?”

  “Sixteen-sixteen Robello Drive. You’ve got to send someone right out.”

  “Ah, the Garvey place.” Okay now, that explained a few things. Summer renters. “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said in the practiced calming tone he’d discovered long ago cut right through incipient hysteria. “Now just stay put. Probably nothing to worry about. Chances are she’s just wandering around taking a look at the place.”