Promises to Keep
Page 9
“Mol. I know it’s hard, but we’ll be okay. In fact, you should take a little time for yourself—get coffee, run errands. You haven’t had a break in weeks. Trust me; it’ll be good for both of you.”
Molly doubted that. How could it be good for her to have her insides twisted with worry? Besides, Lily didn’t know the danger. This suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.
Lily said, “Go. You’re going to be late.”
Molly stood there for another minute. If leaving him for an hour was this hard, how was she going to manage a job? A new knot formed in her gut. She didn’t have a choice. The money was fast running out and she had bills to pay. She made herself turn around and walk out the door.
Her interview went like clockwork—which was a miracle considering how distracted she was with worry. When she left, she had an offer for a part-time position in the emergency room starting in two weeks. That gave her true mixed feelings: It removed the financial ax that was about to drop on her neck, but it made it completely necessary to arrange care for the baby. If only this hospital had a daycare center for its staff. Then he’d be close; it’d be easy to check in on him periodically.
She tried to rationalize to herself that mothers had to do this every day. Before she could take comfort in that thought, or maybe it was more in line with “misery loves company,” a little voice of dissent rose, saying, most mothers don’t have to worry about an armed killer hunting down their child.
Starting her car in the hospital lot, she shook her head in an effort to dislodge negative thoughts. If she was going to keep her sanity, she had to stop thinking like that. If she wanted a normal life for Nicholas, she had to start behaving normally.
With that in mind, she willed herself not to beat her way back to Lily’s, breaking speed limits and running stop signs. Instead, she drove to the square. Lily was right, she should do some shopping. Her cupboards were beyond bare and there were a thousand things she needed for the house. It would be so much quicker and easier to run errands without Nicholas.
For the first time in her life, she missed having a cell phone. While in Boston, her social life had been non-existent and the hospital used pagers, so she never needed a cell. But, as she looked for a pay phone in the old-fashioned downtown area to call and check on Nicholas, she felt the lack. There wouldn’t be pay phones inside the hardware store or JC Penney. She almost decided just to go on back to Lily’s when she remembered the pull-up pay phone at the gas station two blocks off the square.
The town had recently decided to make the traffic around the square one-way—a very bad move in her estimation. She didn’t want to circle the courthouse again, so she turned into the alley to cut across to the next block. The alley was so narrow she held her breath as she drove between the old brick walls, as if that would somehow make her car narrower.
When she reached the other side of the block, the buildings sat right next to the sidewalk, making it difficult to see. She edged out, then saw a break in the traffic and accelerated into a left turn.
A sickening thud made her slam on the brakes. Her gaze jerked to her right. Two people from across the street were hurrying toward her car.
Had she hit a dog?
She jumped out and ran around the front bumper.
There, half in the alley and half on the sidewalk, lay a man.
“Oh, my God!” Molly knelt beside him. “I didn’t even see you!”
“Good,” he said with a grimace. “Hate to think you ran me down on purpose.”
He started to move, trying to raise himself up on one elbow. Molly gently forced him back down. “Lie down.”
“I’m okay.”
“Let me be the judge of that, I’m a doctor.” Lucky for her this was a young, healthy-looking man, not an octogenarian with fragile hip joints.
He looked at her for the first time. His blue eyes narrowed against the bright sunlight. “First good luck I’ve had in a while—being run over by a doctor.”
One of the people who’d come to help, a woman with graying hair and tinted glasses, said, “Should I call an ambulance?”
Molly said, “Yes.” At exactly the same time the man said, “No.”
“I’m the expert,” Molly said. “Call them.”
“Waste of time. I won’t go. I’m fine; I’ve spent enough time in the hospital recently to know.”
For the first time, Molly noticed the fresh scar on his neck. Instead of asking about it, she kept to the business at hand. “Where did you hit hardest?”
“My ass.”
A nervous laugh blipped out. Molly quickly squashed it. “Anywhere else?”
“Right elbow smarts a little. Can I get up now?”
“No. Did you hit your head?”
“No, just my ass and my elbow.” He started to move. “I’m getting up.” Then he pointed a finger at the middle-aged woman who was pulling a cell phone out of her purse. “Don’t make that call. If I already have a doctor here, why would I need an ambulance?”
Against Molly’s continued protest, he got to his feet. He looked around where he’d fallen. “I had a key in my hand. See it anywhere?”
Molly reached out and took his right arm. “Let me check your elbow.”
He didn’t protest, but his gaze locked on her face as he slid his jacket off the right shoulder. He smiled when he said, “Want me to take my shirt off, too?” There was enough suggestion in his voice to make Molly roll her eyes.
She thinned her lips to keep from laughing. “Just give me your arm.”
He did; his smile lingered. She ran her hand over the elbow joint, her fingers gently probing for splintered bone or misalignment. Then she worked her way toward his wrist. She could feel his gaze fixed on her face, not his own injury. When she glanced up, it struck her just how good looking he was. Intense blue eyes in a rugged outdoorsy face, the kind of face that made cologne commercials. There was something else shining there too, an open kindness that kept his looks from being harsh. It made it difficult for her to tear her own gaze away.
“Should I call, or not?” The woman was growing impatient.
Molly kept her eyes fixed on his. “I’d feel a lot better if you’d go.”
His voice was teasing when he said, “How about if I sign an affidavit promising I won’t sue?”
Molly let go of his arm. “That was not my concern.”
He slid his arm back into his jacket and shrugged it back on.
“Oh, no! Your jacket’s torn, too.”
He lifted his elbow and looked. Then he shrugged. “It’s old. No big deal.”
“Here—” Molly opened the passenger door and pulled out a pen and paper from her purse “—this is my name and number. Get the jacket fixed, or if they can’t repair it, buy a new one. I’ll take care of the cost.” She pressed the paper into his hand. When it looked like he was going to protest, she said, “It’s either this or the ambulance. And I want your name and address, in case you forget our deal.”
“It’s not necessary—”
She raised a brow and glanced toward the woman with the cell phone.
He shook his head and waved the woman away. “Dean Coletta.” He finally looked at the paper and his brow creased. A flash of what looked like recognition passed in his eyes. After a moment, he said, “I just got to town, actually. I’ve rented Brian Mitchell’s cottage out on Forrester Lake for the month. That’s the key I dropped.”
Molly’s heart nearly stopped. “You’re not from here?” She wanted to snatch the paper back, but he’d already put it in his pocket.
“No. New York. I’m here to do some research for a magazine article.”
What could possibly interest a New York magazine in Glens Crossing? This was too much of a coincidence. She took a small step away from him and glanced at her car, gauging how quickly she could get back inside and drive away. A silver key with its plastic Realtor tag lay on the hood.
“Here’s your key.” She reached out and picked it up. She tried not to touch h
is skin when she handed it to him. “If you’re all right . . . I’m late.” She was already around the front fender.
He said something as she slammed the door, but she couldn’t make out the words. As she pulled out of the alley, she looked in her rearview mirror. He stood stock still, staring after her.
Now she did feel like running stop signs. Her mind tumbled and tossed the image of Dean Coletta. Was there any resemblance to Nicholas? Blue eyes. A slight dimple in the chin. Nothing beyond that. No red hair—but hair could be dyed.
Sarah’s voice echoed in her mind. “He’s not what he appears. He’s very convincing in his lies.”
Magazine article—here in the middle of nowhere. Jesus, did he really expect anyone to believe that?
Chapter 6
Brian Mitchell stood before the wooden steps that led to the porch of the yellow and white cottage. He held an empty cardboard box in his hands. A sense of inevitability settled in his bones. He’d finally accepted that his marriage was over. All of the dreams he’d had of bringing his children to this lake house, teaching them to fish off the dock, to skip stones on the smooth surface of the water, to swim along the shallow shore, were forever beyond his reach. There would be no children—and soon no lake cottage.
When Kate first moved away and filed for divorce, Brian had thought he might be able to hang onto this place; he wanted it more than anything. He’d much rather live here than in the big echoing house on the edge of town.
But the house in town wasn’t selling. Even though he was a Realtor, he hadn’t been able to entice a buyer. The old Tudor with its tennis court and swimming pool were something of a white elephant in the local market. The kind of money it took to buy and maintain the place just didn’t live in Glens Crossing anymore. The few people who could afford it preferred to build something new and showy.
So the lake house had to go. But winter was not the ideal time to sell lake property. Spring would be a much better climate. He’d been scraping money together month to month to keep Kate satisfied and hold onto the cottage until he could get top dollar. He’d been thrilled when Dean Coletta showed up needing a place to rent. That would help make ends meet for the next month at least.
Brian made a mental note to stop by the Crossing House and thank Benny personally for sending Coletta his way.
Turning slowly, Brian took a long look at the property, the lake, the tiny boat house, the dock. Things appeared in order. Then he climbed the steps and unlocked the front door.
There were personal items he felt he should remove before his tenant moved in. As he stood inside the cold interior of the house, looking at the white painted beadboard walls, sadness gripped him. He hated to part with the place, creaky floors, warped ceilings and all.
He picked up a framed photograph from the end table: He and Kate, dressed in bulky sweaters with autumn leaves scattered at their feet, were huddled together on the front step of the cottage porch. Those had been better days—at least marginally better, he begrudgingly admitted. He and Kate hadn’t seen good days in a long, long time. They’d hung on to the pretense of marriage, with both of them living distinctly separate lives for years.
The pretense ended when Brian lost his bid for a congressional seat. He’d embarked on the prospect with high—and he now saw, unrealistic—ideals. Kate had hung onto their marriage with the prospect of a move to Washington and what she imagined to be the glitz of being a politician’s wife.
By the time he’d had enough experience with the system to see that once elected his main focus would be on getting re-elected, not striving to change the things he thought needed changing, Kate and the campaign had been in full swing. And so many local people had climbed on board to support him that he decided he would do his best to win, then his best to make changes; re-election be damned. But he’d lost—and he’d been relieved.
Then Kate had packed up and left town. And, in a way, that felt like a relief, too. The fact that he felt that way made him ashamed.
He dropped the photograph in the empty box. The dull thud as it hit bottom resonated through his empty heart. He picked up the next photo, this one of his sister Leigh, his only family. He smiled and laid this one gently inside the box.
With all of the recent changes, he was feeling loneliness more acutely than he’d ever imagined.
Which led to the other reason Brian was glad to see Dean Coletta arrive in town. He could tell, even in their short meeting, that he liked the guy. In fact, they planned to meet for dinner tonight. It would be good to have someone new to talk to, especially someone as well-traveled as Coletta.
There could be a side benefit to the magazine article Coletta was working on. With the additional exposure, “the yearning of the urbanite to return to simpler times,” as Coletta had put it, property around here might start appreciating. That would be good for Brian, and good for the community as a whole. These days small towns were choked out by the hundreds, water-starved flowers on the landscape of this country. It wouldn’t be until all of the flowers had died, replaced by cracked earth and high-tech plastic, that people would see what they had lost. The progression seemed unstoppable, and it broke his heart. He’d lived here all of his life. It would kill him to see Glens Crossing shrivel and die one block at a time.
Brian just hoped the exposure wouldn’t lead to too much change around here. There were things he liked just as they were. It was a fine line to maintain. He’d have to ask Coletta in more depth what angle he planned on taking with this article.
With his mind focused on the future, he quickly finished going through the cottage, emptying personal items from the tiny bathroom and checking to make sure there wasn’t any moldering food in the fridge. By the time he locked the cottage door behind him, he was feeling much more in charge of himself. Safeguarding his town against the wrong kind of publicity was just the kind of thing he could sink his teeth into.
As Molly passed through the last stoplight on her way out of town, her mouth remained dry and tasted nasty, but her heart had begun to settle back into a reasonable rhythm. If the man she’d run over was Nicholas’s father, it was too bad she hadn’t killed him.
She reined in her racing thoughts. Logic. Use your logic. There was nothing that said the man was the baby’s father. Nothing at all. She had jumped to that conclusion in an irrational heartbeat.
Yeah well, logic said no national magazine would be interested in a town where the most exciting thing that happened was a high school football game.
Then again, if he was the father and had followed her to Glens Crossing, why wouldn’t he just have slipped into town and grabbed the baby? Why would he let so many people know he was here? It didn’t make any sense. She wasn’t that difficult to find in this small town; he wouldn’t need to concoct the magazine story at all.
Maybe Coletta had been hired by the baby’s father: a private investigator. Which only made marginally more sense than him being the actual father. She couldn’t imagine the man who killed Sarah would do anything to draw attention to himself—if he wanted the baby, he’d sneak in and grab it.
She drew a deep breath and let it out. She’d keep an eye out and her ears open. Forewarned was forearmed. If Dean Coletta had anything to do with Nicholas’s father, his element of surprise had just evaporated.
Driving into the country, she forced herself to obey speed limits. If Coletta was a threat, he was well behind her at the moment. Nicholas was safe.
She entered Lily’s house and heard her singing. Molly followed the sound to the rear of the house.
Lily and Clay had added a cozy sitting area and fireplace to the kitchen when they first moved here. Lily was sitting in an overstuffed floral-print chair with Nicholas dozing in her arms.
Molly paused in the doorway. Looking at the tranquil scene, she could almost believe Nicholas was a regular baby living a normal life; that his very future didn’t depend upon the success of her lies and deception.
She said softly, “How’d it go?”
Molly waved the comment away, asking with a raised brow, “You don’t remember the first time you left Riley?”
Lily gave her sister a conciliatory look. “All right. Enough said.” She got up and put Nicholas on the couch. “I’m just glad you finally got out of that house. You were beginning to worry me.”
Molly lifted a shoulder, deciding not to make any more excuses.
When Lily straightened up, she asked, “Lunch?”
“Don’t you have pots to toss or something?”
Lily laughed. “Throw. You throw a pot.” She started pulling stuff out of the refrigerator. “I have to eat before I go back out to the workshop anyway. Besides, you don’t want to wake a sleeping baby.”
“That’s a lesson I’ve certainly learned.” Molly stuck her nose in the fridge. “Do you have any pickles?”
“My God girl, you don’t still eat those jumbo dills like they’re candy bars, do you?”
“It’s a perfectly good snack. Low in fat. No carbs.”
Lily added, “Enough sodium to pickle you.”
Molly shrugged. “Hey, a woman has to have at least one vice.”
As they worked side by side making sandwiches, Molly thought of all of the dinners that Lily had made when they were children.
Their family had moved over the Crossing House when their mother left. Molly had been so young, she didn’t remember living anywhere else. Their dad had to work evenings in the bar, so Lily made dinner—or at least served what their father had prepared ahead. She, Luke, and Molly ate alone. But Molly never felt lacking. Lily and Luke provided her with a strong sense of security, of family. And Dad had just been downstairs. The fact was, Molly had been in first grade, eating dinner at a friend’s house, before she even noticed that their family was different from others.
But Lily had always known. She’d felt the sting of desertion, the shame of small-town gossip. Therefore, Lily had always been a little touchy when it came to conversations about their mother; had always been quick to react when people outside the family mentioned her. Molly had never felt that way. Maybe it was because she didn’t possess more than a few incomplete scraps of memory about the woman.