Promises to Keep

by Susan Crandall

  Why was he here? Why today, when she needed to be as far away from him as she could be? It was as if God was trying to punish her by setting what she couldn’t have within the illusion of her grasp.

  Then she heard him groan. It was sound from the soul—of torment and pain—she recognized it because she herself had made it so often. She nearly stepped out then, nearly went to him with her friendship—and her heart—offered up in her open hands.

  Lucky for her, before she could do it, he got up and walked away.

  Chapter 15

  Molly had gained valuable insight today from the simplest of women. Some things just couldn’t be learned from medical books. Hattie’s miracle remedy worked brilliantly a second time, when Nicholas started in again after his evening bottle.

  Even though sitting in a steamy bathroom for forty minutes with a mildly fussy baby wasn’t her idea of a pleasant evening, it beat the hell out of walking the floors with him screaming in discomfort. Whether colic was caused by digestive distress or, as some proposed, from an underdeveloped nervous system going into overload from too much stimuli, it didn’t really matter; the shower and steam treatment was working for this baby. By ten o’clock, after a relatively quiet evening, Nicholas was snuggled in his bed.

  As she returned to the kitchen, she felt really good for the first time in weeks. Her life was finally falling into some kind of order. She squirted dish detergent in a sink of hot water and dropped in the dirty bottles and nipples. Then she heard a familiar tapping on the glass of her front door.

  Her heart lightened further. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and hurried to let Dean in.

  When she opened the door, his face was in shadow from the porch light. She was really going to have to hit a few garage sales and get some furniture in this room. Letting people in during the day wasn’t so bad, but admitting guests to a completely darkened room was very inhospitable.

  Dean stepped in the door and she slid her arms around his waist. This was a very good day. “Hello, you.”

  He held her surprisingly tightly when he kissed her. But Molly sensed something wrong in the kiss. The tension she felt coming from him had nothing to do with sex or desire.

  She backed up a step, sliding her hands to his chest. “What’s wrong?”

  He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and thumb, as if to ward off a headache. “I’ve been waiting outside until I saw you put the baby to bed.”

  A chill danced at the base of her spine. She didn’t know if it came from the idea of him sitting outside watching her through the windows, or his ominous tone.

  He said, “I have something to tell you. And I need your full attention.”

  She put another step between them, dropping her hands to her sides. “You certainly have it now.”

  Her eyes were adjusting to the dimness enough that she could see his glance around the room. “Maybe we should go in the kitchen.”

  “I need to be sitting down, is that it?” A tightness formed in her stomach.

  “Something like that.” There was no humor in his smile.

  As she turned around and led him to the kitchen, she quickly sifted through a dozen different reasons for his seriousness. None of them were good.

  “Do you want some coffee, a Coke?” she asked. She needed something herself, if only to occupy her hands.

  “No thanks. My stomach can’t take it.” He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair, then sat down.

  “Well, my stomach is definitely calling for a Coke.” She opened the refrigerator and took out a can. Then she sat down at the table with him. “All right. What’s going on?” She didn’t like the way he was avoiding looking her in the eye.

  And then he did—look her in the eye. His gaze was intense, yet bleak; her heart settled to the pit of her knotted stomach.

  “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to put it out there.”

  He held her motionless with his gaze. The fact that he had such power over her frightened her. His passion had drained her will; now the intensity of his presence stole her ability to move.

  “I didn’t come here to write a story,” he said flatly.

  That chill that had been teasing her spine mushroomed, consuming her whole being. Unable to articulate with her frozen lips, she remained silent.

  He continued to stare into her eyes. “I came here because of Sarah Morgan.”

  Molly was trying to breathe in a vacuum. Her mind raced.

  He reached out to touch her arm and her paralysis vanished. She jumped out of the chair and backed against the cabinets.

  “Molly,” he stood. “She was my sister.” He looked earnest enough, as if his heart was in his hands, but it couldn’t be.

  “No.” She shook her head; in her fear it was no more than a twitch. “That’s not possible.”

  “Please, sit down.” He sat himself. “I have so many questions I want to ask you.”

  She stood rigidly in place. “I have a few for you, too.”

  “Fair enough.” He motioned for her to take a seat.

  She remained standing, glad for the distance between them. “Sarah Morgan didn’t have a brother. She had no family at all. So who are you really?”

  “The question you need to ask is: Who was Sarah—really?” He paused, then shifted and reached behind him.

  Molly snatched a paring knife off the counter. It was a pitiful attempt at protection, but it was all she had.

  He halted. “I’m just getting my wallet.” But he didn’t start moving again until she nodded her assent. “Her real name is Julie Coletta.” He opened the wallet and held up a photograph.

  Molly had to step closer in order to see it clearly, but the knife stayed in her hand. The picture was of Sarah Morgan in a black cap and gown standing by Dean with his arm around her. They both looked younger.

  He said, “When she got her master’s at Columbia.”

  Molly’s voice was weak but she mustered a bit of a challenge in it when she said, “Why would she have told me she had no family?”

  Dean set the photo on the table. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Molly’s life for the past six months tumbled like a colorful kaleidoscope in her mind. The green dress Sarah wore the first day she’d asked Molly out for coffee. The bloodred sunset they’d watched at the end of a day of shopping thrift stores for Sarah’s baby. Nicholas’s birth in the silvery sleet storm. Sarah’s frightened blue eyes the day she’d shown up at Molly’s apartment with the baby. The cold gray light of morning when Sarah’s image was shown on the morning news. Dean’s embrace by the cheerful yellow fire. It finally settled on the image of Nicholas wrapped in a pale blue blanket sleeping sweetly in the crib in her bedroom.

  My God, what was she going to do?

  She stopped herself before she blurted out something that she’d regret, forcing herself to take a mental step backward. He hadn’t said anything about the baby yet. Had he not put together that piece?

  After a moment, she said, “You’ve been lying to me from the day we met.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . I thought there was a possibility that you had something to do with her murder.” As Molly struggled to take in a breath, he rushed on, “I know that’s not true now.”

  She gathered an edge to her voice when she said, “You came here . . . weaseled into my life—” her fingers went to her lips “—last night, we . . . .”

  He stood and started to take a step toward her.

  “Stay where you are.”

  “Everything I’ve said to you, except for my reason for being here, has been the truth. But I had to be sure before I said anything.”

  “And how are you sure now?” Her spine stiffened. It was clear that he didn’t know everything. What was she going to do about that? The very thought of giving up Nicholas made her nauseous.

  “I know you now.”

  “But when you arrived, you thought I killed your s
ister.”

  His fingers massaged his forehead again. “Not killed her yourself. I didn’t know what to think. Maybe it had to do with selling the baby . . . she had a baby in your clinic, then that baby disappeared and she was murdered—you left Boston unexpectedly that same day. It was all I had.”

  Molly threw the knife back onto the counter. The sharp clatter sent fresh shivers down her spine. In all of the horrible scenarios she’d envisioned that would threaten her and Nicholas, she never even considered something like this.

  “Did you know she was going to have a baby?” she asked, not looking at him.

  “No. I’ve been in a war zone in the Middle East for months and months. I last spoke to her in May, but she didn’t say anything about a baby. I also have no idea why she left New York and went to Boston using a fake name. I don’t know anything.” His voice sounded bleak enough that she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  A cold thought grabbed her. The truth was she didn’t know Dean at all. His entire presence had been a lie. Sarah had kept her pregnancy a secret from him for a reason, maybe the same reason she’d told Molly that she had no family.

  She decided she wasn’t going to say any more, not tonight. She wasn’t just going to hand over this baby just because Dean was Sarah’s brother. Nicholas had to be protected, cared for. “I want you to leave.”

  “Molly, please, I need your help.”

  She looked in his eye. “You should have said that in the beginning.”

  He simply stood with his hands at his sides.

  “I don’t have the answers you need,” Molly said. “She had the baby at the clinic, then disappeared from the ER. I don’t know why she used a fake name. I don’t know why she came to Boston.”

  “You were friends.”

  “Yes. But I obviously didn’t know her very well if I didn’t know her real name.”

  “Do you know who the baby’s father was?”

  Molly shook her head. “I really want you to leave now.”

  He walked to the kitchen door. Then he stopped and looked at her again. “I’m sorry you’re angry. I just want to find out what happened to my sister.”

  “And toying with me was just a little entertainment on the way? Or was that part of your investigation?”

  His expression couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d slapped him. She forced herself to ignore the tug at her heart.

  “I said it once,” he said, the earnestness back in his eyes, “and I’ll say it one more time. But I’m not going to beg. Those moments you and I shared are real. I think you’re beautiful, intelligent, brave, and dedicated. I can understand why my sister chose you as a friend.” Then he turned around and walked into the darkness of the living room.

  Molly held her breath until she heard the front door close behind him.

  Dean stood on the front porch fighting the urge to turn around and walk back into Molly’s house. Had he actually hoped he could make his admission and have her still trust him, continue to look at him with caring eyes?

  The sad fact was, even though his conscious mind knew the outcome of this visit, somewhere deep in his heart he held onto the hope that she would comfort him, share in his loss, embrace him, vowing to help him find the person who murdered Julie. What a fool he was—no woman on earth could be that forgiving.

  He’d achieved nothing but to disrupt her life, betray her trust. He never should have allowed himself to become personally involved with her. At first, he’d justified it as a means to discovering a murderer. He now saw that’s all it had been—justification. He’d been attracted to her from the moment she got out of her car after running him over. As they shared more time, it only drew him emotionally closer to her. All of the bullshit about her being so cunning, creating an innocent front was just that . . . bullshit—an excuse to get closer, to know her more deeply.

  The poor woman had enough trouble: a baby with no father, a father who had cast her out, a jealous neighbor ready to stir trouble in a town already filled with gossip—good God, she didn’t even have any furniture to sit on.

  He stalked down the steps, got in his car and headed for the Crossing House.

  When he walked in, a tight knot of Monday Night Football watchers stood at the end of the bar near the TV. The Indianapolis Colts were up by a good margin, the atmosphere was relaxed and jovial. This late on a Monday, everyone appeared to be nursing their beers, leaving Benny free to tidy the bar.

  Dean took a seat at the end of the bar near the entrance, not far from Benny.

  “Evening,” Benny said with a nod.

  Dean nodded. He had intended on ordering a beer, but what came out of his mouth was, “Vodka.”

  “Any preference?”

  “Absolut.”

  Benny poured, then set the drink in front of Dean.

  Dean took a swig and let the vodka burn its way to the pit of his stomach.

  Benny moved on and let him drink in peace. After a while, he drifted back to Dean’s end of the bar and asked, “Bad night?”

  “Bad month.” Then Dean drained his glass and nodded for a refill.

  “How’s the magazine article coming?”

  Dean ignored the question, not intentionally, but the vodka had temporarily assumed command of his senses.

  Benny fiddled with some glassware, then said, “Does this ‘bad month’ have to do with my daughter?”

  Dean’s gaze lifted from the glass to Benny’s beefy face. The movement felt sluggish. He hadn’t had any hard liquor for months. Muslim countries didn’t allow it, and he couldn’t afford to have his wits dulled on the rare occasion that a bottle appeared. Now the vodka went straight to his tongue. “Listen, I came here to save you some heartache.”

  Benny’s black brows arced high. “Is that so?”

  Dean finished off another shot. This one went down much more smoothly. “Yes.” He tapped the empty shot glass on the bar twice and looked at the bottle near Benny’s hand. “You’re going to regret it.”

  “I think you’d better slow down a bit. Why don’t we get you a little something to eat?”

  Dean raised a palm in the air. “No food, thanks.” He tapped the glass again.

  Benny put no more than a splash in the glass. “Regret what?”

  Dean leaned his face close to the glass and peered at it. “Hey, I think you’re trying to cheat me.”

  “This one’s on the house.” He looked over his shoulder and said, “Faye, let’s have an order of nachos down here.”

  Dean held the glass, turning it slowly and watching the tilt of the clear liquid. “Heartache.”

  “Ah, yes. You were going to save me,” Benny said as he put the bottle of Absolut under the counter.

  “Damn straight.” Dean nodded curtly. “Your daughter came here because she needs you. She’s given you a gift—family, a boy to carry on your name, someone to keep you when you’re old.”

  Sorrow pooled in Dean’s gut. His mind started to run in circles like a chained dog around a tree and made just about as much sense. No family for him. No more Colettas. Why didn’t Julie tell him she was pregnant? He was alone in the deepest sense of the word. Why did he have to fall for a woman who would never want to look at him again?

  Benny looked narrowly at Dean. “And what is it to you—my relationship with Molly?”

  Dean scrubbed his hand over his face. Was the man too stupid to see? “She’s an ex-extraordinary person—smart, beautiful. You s-s-should have seen her—the man on the bicycle. . . .” He paused, unable to form a more articulate argument. Why did he drink so much? Now he was screwing this up, too. “You should be proud.”

  Faye bustled up and set a plate of nachos in front of him. “Darlin’, you look like you lost your best friend.”

  He pointed a finger at Benny. “Don’t let him mess up too.”

  Faye cast Benny a confused look. He gave her a nod and she left them alone.

  Then Benny leaned close to Dean’s face, his elbows on the bar. “You’re not he
re to write a story, are you?”

  Dean didn’t say anything.

  “That smelled rotten from the moment I heard it,” Benny said. “A man of your reputation. . . .” He engaged Dean’s gaze. “You’re here for Molly.”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

  “And how do you know what I’m thinking?”

  Dean lifted a shoulder, wishing he hadn’t taken that last drink of vodka.

  Benny lowered his voice. “Just so you’re clear on what I’m thinking, I’m going to tell you. You’re not here for your magazine—the only person you’ve been talking to in this town is my little girl.”

  Dean opened his mouth to say he’d spoken to others, but Benny held up a hand.

  “I think you came here because of her. Now I don’t know what’s going on between you two. But if you’re that baby’s daddy, it’s time for you to step up and take responsibility. Save yourself some heartache.”

  Dean blinked in surprise. “That’s what you think?”

  Benny nodded, and stood up straight again. “And that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.” He turned around and walked away.

  Dean sat there for a long moment, wishing his problem was that simple; that he had fathered Molly’s baby. That he could fix in a heartbeat.

  Riley had refused dinner, saying his stomach was upset. At eleven o’clock, Clay tapped on his bedroom door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I come in?” He wanted to get whatever was bothering the boy worked out. There was no way he and Lily could explain his paternity to him in his current frame of mind. Over the past few days, Clay felt Riley drifting farther away. And it worried him.

  “Sure.” It was acquiescence without enthusiasm.

  He and Riley had been getting along decently. Riley had seemed happy these past few months. There had been the little uproar in their house when the Mustang arrived from Riley’s grandparents on his sixteenth birthday without a breath of warning to Lily. But they sat down, the three of them, and worked out ground rules that didn’t actually please Riley, but were much preferable to returning the car—which had been Lily’s first reaction.

  Clay wondered if, when the Holts learned the truth, they would repossess the car. Well, if they did, that would show Riley just how shallow they were. For sixteen years, they’d loved him as a grandson. Clay fervently hoped they would behave well and not cause the boy more hurt than he was already in for.