by Sylvie Kurtz
"So there you are." Beth's voice made him swing around in surprise, scraper forward at the ready. "No wonder you didn't answer the doorbell. Need any help?"
"No." He turned back to the wallpaper. He'd have to remember to lock the front door from now on. Where had he gotten the idea that New Englanders were reticent?
Beth cleared a space on the counter littered with grocery bags, screws, hinges and dog paraphernalia, and placed a casserole dish on the faux wood. "Three hundred and fifty degrees for about forty minutes, and you'll have a piping-hot meal. I don't suppose I can convince you to make a salad to go with that?"
"I don't take charity."
He'd gotten more casserole dishes from the local church ladies than he ever wanted see again after Sam's death. Just the shape of the pan with its foil cover was enough to rack a shiver of nausea through him. Give him a steak and potato any day. At least they had recognizable shapes, substance, and weren't indecipherable blobs held together by some tasteless saucy goo.
"It's not charity," she protested, but her blush belied her intent. Did he have sucker written all over his face?
"I'm testing a new recipe," she went on, fluttering about his kitchen like a damned hummingbird, "and Jamie doesn't like spinach. I thought maybe because you were still in the middle of unpacking and probably wouldn't take the time to cook yourself a decent meal that I'd see if you wanted to test it for me. I'll need a detailed report on taste, texture, consistency—"
There would be no report if he could help it.
"Where's Jamie?" Was she in the habit of leaving her son alone? Didn't she realize someone could snatch him away from her in the space of just a second?
"He's at his friend Bobby's house." He caught her muted reflection on the refrigerator door. Confusion rucked her forehead, but he wasn't about to enlighten her. It wasn't his business.
"How's Max doing?" she asked as she inspected the insides of his bare cupboards.
"Max?"
"Your dog."
"She's not mine," he grumbled, plopping another ball of soggy wallpaper into the bucket.
Max, the traitor, popped her head up and grinned inanely up at him.
"If you say so." Smiling, Beth dug awkwardly into her purse and brought out his wallet. "You do have plates, don't you?"
"Somewhere."
He wished he'd never handed her his wallet, giving her a ready excuse to bother him. Ten to one she'd taken a gander at every piece of paper in there. And someone like her was bound to have questions. Her curiosity danced in those big, powder-blue eyes of hers. How long before she pecked at him like all those frenzied reporters after the trial?
"Mr. Ward! Mr. Ward!" They'd chased after him mic in hand, cameras whirring. "Tell us about the day your daughter was killed."
And they'd wanted all the excruciating, titillating details to feed the excitment-starved masses on the five-o'clock news. And maybe, just maybe, they'd also wanted to scoop the ugly truth that some of the blame should be cast his way.
"Yes, I was there."
"Yes, I'd just let her go."
"First time on her brand-new bike."
"Yes, I saw the truck hop the curb and smash into her."
And I would have taken her place in a heartbeat, if I could have. But they'd never asked that question.
"Mr. Ward, how does it feel to know the person who killed your daughter is now a free man?"
"How do you think it feels?"
It feels like hell. Every day. Every hour. Every minute.
The raw, jagged wound reopened inside him, bleeding shame and guilt and anger all over again.
"Where do you want me to put your wallet?" Beth asked.
"Anywhere. It doesn't matter." He jabbed the scraper, taking part of the sheetrock along with the wallpaper.
The dog whined and scrambled to her feet.
"Logan? Are you all right?"
He turned toward Beth and forced the semblance of a smile. "I'm just fine. I'd really appreciate it if you left."
She fiddled with the zipper on her coat, sliding it up and down as if she couldn't make up her mind whether to stay or go. The zzz-zzz-zzz sawed at his already skinned nerves.
"Three-fifty for forty minutes," she said.
He nodded and turned away, scraping without really seeing what he was doing. His hand shook, zagging the shriveling paper into a squiggly eel. The dog sat at his feet and pawed at his work boot.
"I'll check on you tomorrow."
"I don't need anyone to check on me." She was a trial. True purgatory. Flaying him with reminders of his failings. "I told you I'm perfectly fine."
"Okay." She hesitated. "If there's anything I can do..."
"There isn't." The last thing he needed was a meddling female in his sanctuary.
"I'm right next door, if you need anything."
"I won't."
She started toward the hallway, then stopped. "Logan?"
"What now?" His throat was raw. His hand was white as it clutched the scraper. His body rippled with his intensifying pain. He needed a stiff drink, a whole bottle of straight-cut bourbon, except that he'd promised himself he wouldn't travel down that road. Whatever came, he was going to face it straight on and sober. The same way Sam had been forced to face that truck.
"I understand."
He snorted and attacked the wall once again. "How can you when your little world is all sunshine and song?"
"Because someone who's been to hell and back recognizes a fellow traveler."
A growl snarled inside him, slashing at his gut, burning hot and red. "How dare you presume...?" Then he remembered she was a widow. "It's not the same thing. It wasn't your fault."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
Her voice was soft, holding not a hint of accusation, but a familiar chord of torment. He couldn't help himself, he looked at her over his shoulder, saw the fragility behind the smile, the vulnerability behind the ebullience.
"He was the center of my world," she said, gulping in a breath of air. The blue of her eyes became brilliant stars with the shine of unshed tears. "I loved him more than life itself. But I didn't see the cancer eating at him. What if I'd seen the signs earlier? Could I have saved him then? Would he still be here if I'd insisted he go to the doctor sooner?"
Logan couldn't bear to watch her pain, yet he couldn't look away from the mirror of his own misery.
She shrugged. Her gaze dropped to her bandaged hands where her fingers twined as if seeking support one from the other. "I've asked myself those questions a thousand times. I'll ask myself a thousand more. Maybe I'll never stop asking. But it won't change the outcome. The one thing I do know is that killing myself isn't going to bring Jim back. And if I had to bear the load alone, I'd have crumpled from the weight long ago."
Her gaze crept up, sought his. Her eyes blazed with fervency. "You don't need to lock yourself away. You need to let people in."
He said nothing, couldn't say anything. No argument would convince her of his compelling need to work and sweat and be completely and utterly alone with his loss.
She hitched her purse up on her shoulder. "Anytime, Logan. I'm there. I mean it."
This time she left. He opened his mouth, but couldn't think of what he needed to say. And when the front door snicked closed, he turned back to the hideous wallpaper, scraping until his hand hurt, dulling the pain and anger and toning down the insistent voice that nagged at him. The little dog's body shivered against his leg, but he didn't have the strength to bend down and pet her.
Finally giving in to the hounding urge, knowing all the while she could not hear him, he rested his forehead against the bared wall and exhaled a low, long puff of breath. "Beth...."
* * *
Beth knew she was driving herself into a frenzy for nothing. What was said was said, and she couldn't take it back. Still.... She peered once more out the living room window at the gray farmhouse across the street. The light in the kitchen burned bright in the darkness, but she could make out no movem
ent from this distance.
Acting on intuition, she'd said too much. But when she'd seen him standing there, trying so hard to hide his pain, she couldn't help herself. She'd recognized the signs of someone in deep mourning. For his wife? His daughter? Both? Her heart went out to him.
Eve had been there for her after Jim's death. How many times had she told and retold all of her stories to the patient Eve? Beth had simply tried to pass on the favor to Logan. Instead she'd managed to drive him deeper into himself.
When she'd gone back the next day with another meal, he'd ignored the doorbell and this time the doors—front and back—had been locked. She'd left the food on the doorstep and had found the empty dish this afternoon when she'd returned with yet another peace offering. Again he'd refused to answer. Again the doors had been locked.
Sitting on the sofa, she looked up at Jim's picture on the mantel and could almost hear him tutting at her. "I told you this would lead to no good."
"But, Jim, I can't just leave him to drown like that."
But this time Jim's photograph only smiled back at her. She sighed and looked away. "I'll give him one more day. He said he'd have a phone tomorrow."
In the meantime she had a ton of things to do—bills to pay, phone calls to make, menus to go over. After peering in on Jamie, she sidestepped her office and elected to go to the kitchen instead. Pulling out a recipe file, she decided to experiment with a batch or two of muffins to keep her mind off her sorrowful neighbor. Something tasty, yet nutritious she could slip by Jamie's "yuck-radar." Maybe she'd even drop off a few on Logan's doorstep in the morning. The man needed more flesh on his bones.
When she headed to bed a few hours later, she noticed that Logan's kitchen light still burned bright. And even though she had to get up early to go to work, she couldn't seem to fall asleep. Her mind ran round and round with thoughts of Jim and the picture of him fading in her memory, of her desperation to color in all the details, of their love, of his death, of her loneliness.
She punched the pillow and flopped onto her side. "I'm not lonely. I have Jamie. I have my work. I have lots of friends...."
Then inevitably her thoughts turned to Logan and the raw wound of sorrow she'd spied deep in his eyes, his punishing self-isolation, his control strung too tight. When that control broke, he'd need someone. And somewhere in the fuzzy haze between sleep and waking, she understood that helping Logan find his foothold on life once again was as important to her well-being as to his.
* * *
Logan was using the window seat at the kitchen's bay window to rest while applying a fresh piece of sandpaper to the sander. Max had hopped up next to him and surveyed the operation. She looked a bit dazed. He could relate. He wasn't feeling particularly sharp, either. And that's just how he wanted things. Sleep would only bring nightmares, and he couldn't handle them right now.
"I told you the hours were gonna be hell."
Max sneezed.
"I warned you about the dust, too."
The stupid mutt just wagged her tail as if he'd said something profound. "You're not too bright, are you?"
Max huffed her indignation and lay down on the seat, tail curled over her muzzle.
He concentrated on his task, on every ache of his overworked muscles. He kept his gaze locked on the sander, on the sandpaper, on his hands. When his gaze tried to creep up, he forced it back down. Then he told himself it was to see if the dog was still there. Even when he looked past the mutt's head to the outside, he told himself it was to check on the weather. The clouds had looked ominous during the afternoon.
The inky blackness against the windows reflected his own gaunt image. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days, could probably use a shower and a change of clothes. But even his own base evaluation of his scruffy condition didn't prevent him from penetrating the darkness of this winter's night and finding the shadow of Beth's house. She'd turned off all the colorful lights when she'd gone to bed at eleven the night before. Yankee thriftiness, he was sure, not due to any consideration of his dislike of their brightness.
"I wonder if she'll feed us again today."
Max sat up and looked out the window with him.
When a bedroom light went on, quickly followed by a second one, he froze. His heart pounded in his chest. Seeking a clock, he zeroed in on the stove. Five-thirty. Something was wrong. Had to be. Why else would they get up so early? Was Jamie sick?
"It's none of my business." He fiddled with the sandpaper. It refused to cooperate. With a growl, he rammed the sander onto the seat. Swearing, he got up and donned his coat.
"What if she does need help?" he asked the dog. "With her hands all cut up and bandaged..."
Max barked her approval, hopped off the seat and followed him to the front door.
"Stay." He dragged on his coat. "The last thing I need is you to add to the confusion."
Max whined, but he shut the door in her face anyway. He hiked his collar up and trudged across the street to Beth's house, cursing himself with every step. Pounding on the door, he called himself every name in the book.
"What's wrong?" he asked when an out-of-breath Beth answered the door.
"Wrong?" She frowned as she pulled a purple, teal and royal-blue ski sweater over a white turtleneck. "Nothing's wrong. What made you think something was wrong?"
The sweater's bright colors brought out the blue of her eyes, and he couldn't look away from the mesmerizing brightness. "Why else would you be up so early?"
She blinked twice. "It's Monday. I have to go to work."
"But it's five-thirty."
She gave his coat sleeve a firm tug, drawing him inside, then shut the door. Warmth surrounded him and the aroma of fresh coffee teased him.
"I have to be at school by six-thirty."
Saying the words seemed to act as a reminder. She glanced at her watch and sprang into action. Her magnetic energy towed him behind her, and he followed her to the kitchen.
"I thought you were a chef."
"I'm the food service manager at the middle school. We have a breakfast program."
She took two mugs from a cupboard, filled them with coffee and handed him one. After a quick sip from hers, she fluttered again—from fridge to pantry to drawers—as she put together a lunch. One by one a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, carrot sticks, apple and an oatmeal cookie with an M&M smiley face found their way into a brown paper bag.
Did Jamie trade or did he hang onto that cookie? Sam would have ended up with twice the cookie's worth of chips and cheese curls. She kept telling him she was sweet enough as it was and needed a good crunch. She'd laughed at the idea of carrot sticks instead of chips. "Oh, Daddy." She'd shaken her head as if he didn't have a clue.
"What about Jamie?" he said, jarring himself from the memory.
"What about him?" She ripped a piece of paper from the pad on the fridge, scribbled a note, ending with a doodled heart, and tucked it on top of the lunch.
It was the heat, he decided. Or maybe the fact her coffee tasted much better than his. Something had him suddenly on edge and grinding his teeth. "Do you leave him here by himself?"
"Of course not." She gathered coats, mitts and hats. "I drop him off at Eve's, and she walks him to school."
"This is too early for a kid."
She stopped her active buzzing and flashed him a narrowed look. "He goes to bed at seven-thirty on weekdays, so he gets plenty of sleep. Anything else on your mind this morning? I really have to go check on Jamie's progress."
He should quit while he was ahead, but he couldn't seem to stop the mad impulse to push and question and... know. Know what? He was going crazy. Stark raving mad. These people were strangers. Noisy busybodies. Why should he care? "Why don't you get someone to come to your house?"
"I've tried. But we're too far out."
Fuss, fuss. Check and recheck. Her hands never stopped. Now it looked as if he'd made her uncomfortable in her own home. He definitely should head back. She didn't need him. Everything w
as under control.
Except him.
"Why don't you move closer to work so you don't have to leave so early?"
This time she didn't hold back her exasperation. She sighed the mother of all sighs and shook her head. "It's my house. All my memories are here. And just what business is this of yours?"
His jaw tightened. His fists stiffened. "None."
"Knock-knock." Jamie's voice bounded ahead of him as he pounded down the stairs. In stocking feet, wearing jeans and a T-shirt dotted with silk-screened bugs, he came sliding to a halt between Beth and him, clasping a pant leg from each adult in his hands. His light-brown hair was still mussed from sleep.
"Who's there?" Beth asked, giving her son a smile much too bright for the early hour.
Logan had to look away and found the cream-colored stoneware mug with its blue-and-green snowflake design still gripped in his hand. He downed half the coffee, burning his palate in the process. Concentrating on the aroma, on the taste, he tried to distract himself from the sturdy, yet fragile feel of Jamie's fingers scrunched around his jeans, of Beth's soft strength, of their nearness, of the buzz of anxiety rising to his chest like a swarm of Africanized bees.
"X."
"X who?"
"X for breakfast?"
She ran a hand through Jamie's hair. "I made some muffins last night to bring to Eve's."
"Mo-om." Jamie twisted his head away from her busy fingers. "What kind?"
"Peanut butter and raisin."
"Old recipe?"
"New recipe."
Jamie scrunched his face. "Oh, yuck!"
"More peanut butter."
Jamie brightened and let go of Logan's pant leg to lift up a couple of fingers. "I'm gonna have two."
"Not if you don't hurry up and get ready. Where's your backpack?"
"In my room."
"Your shoes?"
"In my room."
"Up you go, then." She gave Jamie a playful swat on the bottom and sent him pounding up the stairs like a two-ton elephant.
"And put on a sweatshirt," she called after him. "It's too cold for just a T-shirt."
"Mo-om."
"Five minutes," she warned, and flitted once more toward the kitchen counter, making him feel like a voyeur in this domestic tableau.