by Karen Young
Jake smiled. “No. No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” He pointed somewhere beyond Michael’s shoulder. “There’s a gate in the fence. Go through it along the side of the house, then follow the brick walk and you’ll come to the patio and pool in the backyard. There are chairs and a table. Just make yourself at home while I…” He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. “This will be hard for Rachel, Michael. It may take a while before she—”
“I understand, sir.”
For the space of a few heartbeats, Jake simply stared at him. Michael waited a moment more and then turned, locating the gate. He took a step.
“Michael—”
He faced Jake. “Sir?”
“I don’t think I told you…”
Michael waited, his heart thumping.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
CHAPTER THREE
JAKE WALKED SLOWLY along the brick path that led to his front door. Fifteen years ago he’d bought this house for Rachel, and he still loved it. It was a popular style in Florida—low, sprawling stucco painted a soft coral with red tile shingles, a style reminiscent of the Spanish explorers whose influence was seen the length and breadth of the state. Originally, there were only three bedrooms and no den, but as he and Rachel prospered, he’d added a big family room on the back and put in a pool. A couple of years later, he’d added a roomy master bedroom with a lavish bathroom, complete with a sunken tub, which Rachel loved to use. His fingers clenched on his keys. Slowly, a little unsteadily, he put his key in the lock and, giving a little shove, pushed the door open.
Something smelled good. It took him back for a minute. For weeks he’d been coming home to no dinner, or at best something thrown together with little regard for his or Rachel’s taste, something that took little effort and less imagination.
“Rachel, I’m home.”
Rachel came in from the direction of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Hi, you’re a little early, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, a little.” He tossed the jacket he was carrying on the seat of a chair in the foyer. Rachel used to greet him with a kiss when he came in at night, but that along with lots of other little demonstrations of affection had stopped with Scotty’s disappearance. “Something smells good.”
“Roast beef. It’s been a while since we had it.” She hesitated and, looking at her, Jake narrowed his eyes, wondering. Then he realized that she was smiling. Almost. She hadn’t really smiled in a long time, but this was close.
“How about a drink before dinner?” she suggested.
“Sounds good.”
When she turned to the family room, he followed. “I’ll fix it,” he told her.
“Okay. I’ll have some wine.”
He looked at her. Rachel hardly ever drank anything, not even wine. “Are we celebrating something?”
She did smile then, a quick, soft curve of her lips. It was gone almost instantly. “We are.”
He had the whiskey in his hand, ready to pour. He stopped, looking at her. “What is it, sweetheart?”
She shook her head, gesturing to the bottle and his glass. “No, fix your drink first.” She reached up and got a wineglass. “Don’t forget mine.”
He splashed a good double shot into his glass and then, working the cork free on a bottle of chardonnay, poured some for Rachel. She took it as he lifted his own.
“Here’s to—” he looked at her questioningly “—what?”
With her glass poised, she said, “I got a job today.”
He didn’t move. “Well, that’s great, honey. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” She leaned forward and clinked her glass gently against his. “Wish me luck.”
“You bet.” With his eyes locked on hers, Jake sipped his drink.
“It was a lot easier than I expected. You can’t imagine how nervous I was.”
He cleared his throat. “Which bank?”
She set her glass aside. “Neither. I went to the hospital instead. Suzy called as I was trying to decide. She reminded me of the years of volunteer work I’ve done at the hospital and suggested Ron Campbell would probably think that counted for real experience.” Rachel smiled. “He did. I’m working in the emergency room starting Thursday.” With a lift of one shoulder, she made a little face. “That’s because their payroll is set up for the first and fifteenth of the month, and Thursday is the first. I would have started tomorrow morning—or even fifteen minutes after I got the job—but I guess I can use the time to polish up my typing and check my clothes to see if I’ve got the kind of things you wear to an office.”
She hadn’t spoken so many words with so much zest in ages. “What are your hours?”
“Just regular office hours. I told Ron I didn’t think I’d like the midnight hours and, of course, the evening shift—three to eleven, you know—means we’d hardly see each other.”
“And would that have mattered?”
She looked at him, then turned away, taking her wine with her. “Yes, it would have mattered, Jake. I feel that I turned a corner somehow today. I don’t know if getting out of the house and into a job or if testing myself in some capacity other than as an extension of Sheriff Jake McAdam will change anything, but for the first time since…it happened, I feel hopeful. I’m going to do this. My mind’s made up. I hope you understand. If you don’t…”
Jake looked down at the whiskey in his hand. He didn’t want to hear the end of that statement. He’d waited weeks—months—for Rachel to decide she wanted to keep on living, and now it had happened. She had color in her cheeks, hope in her heart. Both would be wiped out when she heard what he had to tell her. Why today? Why not six months ago? Or six months in the future? He drew in a deep breath.
“Rachel, we need to talk.”
“Oh, Jake, don’t ruin this for me! Why can’t you understand that—”
“It isn’t about your job, Rachel.”
She looked at him. “Then what is it?”
“Come on, let’s sit over here.” He walked to the couch and stood waiting. After a moment, Rachel moved toward him. With her eyes on him, she sat down slowly.
“Something happened today, Rachel.” He turned his head and stared out the window he’d planned so carefully. It overlooked the patio and lawn to the pool beyond. The whole backyard area could be seen from the family room. There was no sign of Michael. He was keeping out of sight. Jake wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. His heart twisted at the emotions that must be eating at Michael as he waited. He moved to the windows.
With his back to her, he asked quietly, “Do you remember the time in Miami when you left me?”
“What?”
“It was over fifteen years ago.”
“Yes, I remember. Of course, I remember. How could I forget?” Frowning, Rachel studied the rigid line of his shoulders. “Jake, what—”
“I was working a case, a big one. Ramirez, the Colombian Connection, Rick called it.”
“All I remember is you almost got killed.”
He turned then and looked at her. “I was never sure about something, Rachel. If I hadn’t been shot, would you have come back to me?”
She stood and went to the bar. The stem of the wineglass almost shattered as she set it down. “Why are you bringing all that up now, Jake? It was a hundred years ago. I did come back, so what else is there to say?”
She hadn’t answered his question, and both of them knew it.
“I didn’t force you to leave the DEA. You decided it without a word to me.” Her mouth thinned. “Par for the course. In those days you made all the decisions.”
“Deciding to stay married was a big decision, and you made that one.”
“That was a difficult time for me,” she said quietly. “When you announced you were leaving the DEA, I thought of it as a second chance for us, for our marriage. Whether I loved you was never in question. I did. I do. That lifestyle was one I never felt I’d chosen. I think that was a major part of the problem.”
&nb
sp; He took a deep breath, wondering if his next words would mark the end of their marriage once and for all. Being forced to accept choices she hated had almost driven her away once.
“I had a visitor today. A boy.”
The color drained from her face. Reaching for support, she put her hand on the bar. “Scotty,” she whispered. “You’ve heard something about Scotty.”
“No. Rachel—” He went to her, pulled her against him, groaning as he felt the shudders that racked her body. He rubbed her back and shoulders as if he could stroke away her tremors. “It’s not Scotty. This doesn’t have anything to do with Scotty. Sweetheart, don’t…”
She pulled away. “I’m all right.” She put a hand to her throat. Her mouth wasn’t quite steady as she said, “What is it you’re trying to tell me, Jake?”
“The boy who came today…” He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck, not meeting her eyes. “I… That time when you left, I went to a bar. There was a woman there. I knew her. She was a DEA contact on the Ramirez case. We had a few drinks, too many drinks.”
He dared a quick glance at Rachel’s face. It was a frozen mask. Her hand was still at her throat, unmoving. As still as death.
“We went to her apartment.”
“I don’t want to hear any more.”
Her tone almost undid him. “I have to, Rachel. We spent the night together.” He sent her a pleading look. “It was just that one time. I knew it was a mistake. It didn’t mean anything. It… She… I didn’t even remember her at first when—”
“When what? What!”
“The boy who came to my office today, Rachel. His name is Michael. He’s almost fifteen years old.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. “What are you saying?”
“Rachel, he’s my son.”
The enormity of it was almost too much for Rachel to take in. Suddenly the bar was not enough to support her. On trembling legs, she moved to the couch and sat down again, sinking deep into the cushions. She wished for a crazy moment that she could sink all the way to China.
“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Jake said quietly.
She stared at her hands. “How can you be sure?”
He sat down on the couch, not too close, before answering. “I’m sure. There’s a letter from his grandmother, some other documentation and a birth certificate. It’s—”
Rachel burst into tears. Finally, when she could speak, Rachel asked coldly, “Where’s the moth—the woman?”
“Anne-Marie D’Angelo is her name. She—”
“Who cares about her name? Where is she?”
“She’s dead. She died when he was five.”
“Then his grandmother. Where is she?”
“She died two months ago. He’s alone, Rachel. It took him six weeks to find me.”
She bent over suddenly and put her face in her hands. “I don’t care! You can’t just come in here and tell me this, make this sordid confession and expect me to…” She stopped and raised her head to look at him. “What do you expect me to do, Jake?”
“He doesn’t have anybody, Rachel.”
Her eyes teemed with emotion. “What do you expect from me? Answer me!”
“He’s my son.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, rocking in anguish. Jake put out his hand, moving closer.
“Don’t touch me!”
“He’s waiting outside, Rachel.”
“He can wait until doomsday!”
Jake was silent for a minute. “You’re tired and shocked. I don’t blame you. I’m—”
“Don’t blame me!” She gave him an incredulous look.
“I’m sorry,” Jake went on firmly. “Would you like to go to the bedroom? You can meet Michael when you’re a little calmer.”
She stood up. “I’m never going to be calm about your extramarital affairs or your ‘son,’” she said through gritted teeth.
He took another step, bringing them nose to nose. Catching her by the arm, he said softly. “Don’t ever take that tone about Michael again.”
She stared at him wordlessly, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He let her go.
“Now. I’m not going to leave my son outside like a homeless person. Not when we have three thousand square feet in this house and two extra bedrooms.” He headed toward the French doors that opened onto the patio.
“We only have one extra bedroom,” Rachel said.
He stopped. “How is that, Rachel?”
“Because that’s how it will be when you move into one of them.”
Jake was dead silent for an awful moment. “You’re saying I’m not welcome in our bedroom?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” For a minute, she thought he would do something violent. He looked that fierce.
“Are you sure?”
Some of her rage abated. “I’ll never forgive you for this, Jake.”
A bleak, almost tortured look was in his eyes. And then it was gone. He straightened. “So be it, Rachel.”
MICHAEL SAT ON THE GRASS with his back against a tree trunk well away from the broad expanse of glass that he guessed was the family room. He was lost in wonder at the scene before him. He’d seen places like this in movies, naturally, but never in person. A patio with flowers and furniture and a swing. A lawn that looked too green to be real. He’d actually bent down to see if it was artificial turf, the stuff they used on football fields. But, no. It was real as rain. Best of all was the pool, of course. A real, live pool. Big, too. One thing he excelled at was swimming. He’d never had the time to devote to practice so he could be on the swim team in Iowa, but the coach had once asked him. He couldn’t wait to try out that diving board. Man, it was something! Jeez, he’d landed in heaven.
He glanced uneasily at the French doors leading into the house and wondered if he’d be invited in or if Jake would have to take him to the office to sleep somewhere until he could figure out what to do with him. He didn’t think he’d like to sleep in jail, even as a guest. He’d seen the jail. One of Jake’s deputies had given him a tour, making a big production out of it.
He pulled his knapsack tight against his belly and fought off the images of the home he’d left. Mama Dee kept everything neat and clean, but the place was rented and the faucets leaked, there was never enough hot water for a long shower, the heater needed better venting and made the place smell like heating oil most of the winter. His eyes fell on twin air-conditioning units situated in a little wooden ell that matched the fencing. He bet Jake never had any trouble like that. His dad never had any duns from the utility company, either, he bet, where they threatened to shut off the electricity. And Scotty and Miss Rachel—as he’d decided to call Jake’s wife—probably never shopped for groceries with food stamps, either. Resting his head against the rough bark of the tree, he squinted through the pink flowers of the tree to blue sky and sunshine. And dreamed….
JAKE OPENED the French door and stepped soundlessly onto the patio. Michael was propped against the base of a squatty palm. Moving closer, he realized the boy was sleeping. Something twisted inside him as he gazed upon the youthful features. He hadn’t thought to ask Michael where he’d spent last night, but he knew it couldn’t have been a hotel. More likely on the beach, sheltered by some stranger’s pier. It had rained, Jake recalled suddenly. Not a soft spring shower, but a torrential downpour. Common enough in Florida, but hardly what Michael was used to in Iowa. Fortunately, it was May. The temperature hardly ever dipped below sixty-five at night. He drew in a deep breath, thankful for small mercies.
He bent and gently squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Wake up, son.”
Michael blinked sleepily, staring with momentary confusion into his father’s eyes. Jake saw the instant he recalled where he was, who Jake was. He made a move to scramble to his feet, darting a quick look beyond Jake toward the patio doors.
“Is it okay?” he asked anxiously.
“Yeah, it’s okay. Come on inside. You’ve got to be hungry. It’s been a long time s
ince we had those burgers.”
“Yes, sir.” Michael slung the strap of his knapsack onto his shoulder and fell into step beside Jake.
Setting his jaw, Jake opened the door and ushered the boy inside. The room was empty, he noted grimly. So this was the way Rachel meant to play it. For the boy’s sake, he’d hoped she would put aside her emotions, at least for tonight. None of this was Michael’s fault.
“Here, let’s just drop that knapsack on the floor by the door,” he said, removing the strap from Michael’s shoulder before the boy could respond. “We’ll get you settled soon, but first you’ll probably want to look around, sort of get the feel of the house. The main bathroom’s just down that hall. The kitchen’s straight through there. See, just beyond the breakfast nook.”
Michael nodded, following Jake’s eye. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ll just check on dinner.” Jake started toward the double doors leading to the kitchen, but something about Michael stopped him. “What is it, Mike?”
Standing still, Michael was taking everything in. “This is sure a nice place.”
“Yeah, I like it, too,” Jake said softly, looking around. The house had a spacious, welcoming look to it. Rachel had a special touch. Several windows, draped with green hanging plants, let in ample light. The furniture was deep and comfortable, invitingly strewn with extra pillows. One whole wall was shelved, artfully displaying books and mementos of their eighteen-year marriage. Their latest acquisition was a large entertainment center with a large-screen TV and sound system. Rachel was a music lover.
He gestured toward the new wing. “That’s the master bedroom,” he told Michael. “It was added not too long ago. My wife—” He broke off as Rachel suddenly appeared. Meeting her eyes, Jake felt a rush of emotions—surprise, gratitude, relief, anxiety—so many emotions, he couldn’t begin to identify them. She stood there, her expression unreadable.
Putting a protective hand on Michael’s shoulder, he cleared his throat. “Michael, come meet my wife…Rachel.” Holding her gaze, he nudged the boy forward slightly. “Rachel, this is my son… Michael.”