In Confidence

by Karen Young

  Rachel pulled open a lower drawer in her desk, plucked out a tissue and handed it over. “I guess you’ll never know, will you?”

  Marta looked up, blinking. “Know what?”

  “Whether or not you would have been persuaded to give your relationship another chance if you’d talked it over.”

  “I don’t see how. He had sex with another woman while he was engaged to me. That’s something he could never explain away.” When Rachel said nothing, Marta stood for a long moment, searching her face, then she sat down again. “Okay, I know that look. What? You agree with him? You think I overreacted?”

  “If it’s overreacting to do what most women do when this happens, then yes. We’re only human,” she added sincerely, recalling her own hurt and humiliation.

  “But you think Pete’s right, that I should have listened to a bunch of lame excuses.”

  “This isn’t about what I think. You went with your feelings and ended your engagement. You’re certainly not the only wronged woman who couldn’t get beyond the pain of infidelity.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Rachel. Do you think Pete’s right, that I was so busy feeling sorry for myself that I threw away something precious?”

  “Is that what he said?”

  Suddenly, Marta’s shoulders drooped and she stared at her hands clasped between her knees. “Yeah.”

  “I’ve always wondered what he’d say if given the chance.”

  “Me, too, to tell the truth,” Marta said. “Oh, not at first. At first I was so furious that I spent most of my fantasy life killing him or killing her. I made up elaborate scenes where I planned the dialogue with a lot more enthusiasm than I wrote the thesis for my doctorate. But later, when I wasn’t so damn furious anymore, I wondered why. Was it retaliation in some way? Was job stress a factor? Was he spooked at the prospect of marriage itself?”

  “Those questions and more have certainly been on my mind lately.”

  Marta looked up. “And—”

  “From the way Ted talks about his relationship with Francine, she just makes him feel good, sexually and otherwise. She appeals to his ego.” It was Rachel’s turn to gaze thoughtfully outside. “Which begs the question. Why did he turn to another woman to make him feel good, or manly, or strong? Did I fail to do that? And doesn’t that seem a rather shallow reason for terminating an eighteen-year marriage?” She turned back to Marta with a wry smile. “When I figure out the answer, I’ll share it with you.”

  “When I broke it off with Pete, I know you thought I was too hasty,” Marta said. “But was it so wrong of me to be scared of marrying him when I caught him cheating? Wasn’t it better to know then rather than after we were married and possibly had children?”

  “Well, I can tell you from personal experience that it definitely hurts then, too,” Rachel said dryly.

  “I’m sorry, Rachel!” she cried, clapping a hand over her mouth. “That was so stupid of me, totally insensitive. My God, here I am whining when you’re the one with two children, an eighteen-year marriage down the tubes and a financial debacle to cope with.”

  “Don’t forget, I’m homeless, too.”

  They both laughed, not entirely without humor. Then with a groan, Marta dropped her face in her hands. “Oh, why did Pete have to show up again? Nobody has ever been able to…to throw me into such a tizzy as that man.”

  “I wonder why that is,” Rachel said, smiling softly.

  “I don’t love him anymore, Rachel, if that’s what you’re thinking. I got over that the day I caught him in bed with Tanya.”

  “If you say so.”

  “It’s true!” After a second, she released a sigh. “But just for the sake of closure—” She wrinkled her nose. “I hate that word. I guess I should take your advice and have that talk with him.”

  “Talk to him only if you want to, Marta, not because I think you should. No one would argue that you had good reason to end your engagement, or at least to put your relationship on hold. It was a prudent and practical step to take in light of Pete’s behavior. But I know how much in love you were—both of you. Maybe your relationship can’t be saved, but there’s something there still, or you wouldn’t be so undone that he’s suddenly reappeared in your life.”

  “He’s not in my life and there is no relationship, Rachel. It’s over!” Marta sliced the air with one hand. “It’s kaput. Done. Finished.”

  “But you’re still willing to have a conversation about it?”

  She shrugged without replying, then after a minute, said in a defensive tone, “I know how it’ll turn out.”

  Rachel’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

  “He set the whole thing up because he wanted me to break the engagement and he didn’t have the balls to do it himself.”

  “So he slept with another woman just to make you mad so you’d call off your marriage and then he spends the next weeks—months—trying to explain his behavior and win you back? And he’s still trying after six years?” Rachel made no effort to hide her view of that theory.

  Marta was again up and pacing. “He was giving me all kinds of signs that he was getting cold feet. I suspected it then, but I just didn’t want to deal with it.”

  “What kind of signs?”

  “He knew I wasn’t comfortable with him being a cop, but no amount of pleading on my part made any difference. Not only did he refuse to consider another line of work, but he volunteered for undercover duty. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

  Rachel clasped her hands on top of Jason’s file and waited. Down the hall, the bell signaling the beginning of the first lunch period rang. Both ignored it. Marta moved to the window and stood watching while students poured out of the building.

  “My dad was killed on duty when he responded to a domestic crisis,” she said quietly, without turning. “It doesn’t have to be a robbery in progress or a hostage situation to put a law enforcement officer in peril. You can get killed on the most routine call, as I learned when I was nine years old. Some nutty guy was threatening his wife with a gun and he didn’t appreciate a cop trying to talk him out of it. Boom! He shot my dad in the face.”

  “I remember,” Rachel murmured softly.

  “I never planned to fall in love with a cop, but I thought I could handle it. Pete knew my concerns, but he volunteered for undercover duty, anyway, the single most hazardous job on the force.”

  “You talked about this at the time?”

  “I called it talking, he called it nagging.” She turned away from the window, her mouth twisting with bitterness. “That’s why this is so ironic, that he wants to talk now. It’s about six years too late for that, in my book.”

  Rachel toyed with a paperclip on Jason’s file. “It’s hard to square that kind of passion for law enforcement with his decision to be police chief in a town like Rose Hill.”

  “He’s probably given us only the tip of the iceberg,” Marta said with a skeptical snort.

  “Does that mean you think he was forced out of the Dallas PD?”

  Again she shrugged. “It works for me.”

  “No, it doesn’t. He said he lobbied hard for this job. Bottom line is, he wants to be in Rose Hill now, Marta, and if you give him a chance to talk to you, he’ll probably explain his change of heart.”

  Marta rose from the chair and reached for the mail she’d dropped on Rachel’s desk. “I still say there’s more to the story than he’s telling.”

  “Maybe,” Rachel said, tucking Jason’s file in her top drawer and locking it. “There is one possibility you’re overlooking.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Six years ago, if Pete had suggested taking the job of police chief in Rose Hill, you wouldn’t have had a problem with it, right?”

  She shrugged. “I guess not. You don’t dodge bullets working behind a desk.”

  “Exactly. And he would have been home every night by five-thirty.” Rachel took her purse from a lower drawer, dropped her keys inside and stood up, ready
for lunch. “Like I said, Marta, he’s one very determined man.”

  Fourteen

  Cameron parked his car at the gym and sat for a minute waiting for the ache in his chest to subside. He’d missed a lot of games during the time Jack had played for the Mustangs, but there had been a few—all too few, he admitted now—when he’d managed to work his schedule to coincide with Jack’s. He recalled watching Jack execute a double play in the bottom of the ninth one cool April evening. His son had nailed the starting first-base position with that play, edging out another excellent athlete. The victory had been especially sweet, since the boy he’d defeated had been a Rose Hill native. Overcoming competition from kids who’d been playing with one another since grade school was only one of the many hurdles Jack had faced and overcome as the new kid on the block. But there had been something Jack faced that he couldn’t handle. Cam got out of his car, determined to find out what it was.

  Squinting in the late afternoon sun, he saw a group of athletes busy in a variety of activities on the field. Four batting cages were all occupied, the balls being pitched manually. Apparently Tyson hadn’t yet persuaded the administration to spring for electronic machines. Across the field, The Man himself was personally supervising a dozen or so boys in vigorous calisthenics. As Tyson barked commands, Cam recalled Jack grumbling about the intensity of the coach’s training regimen, but underneath he’d sensed his son’s pride in handling a level of physical challenge that hadn’t been present in his sports program in New York.

  “No pain, no gain,” Jack had said with a cocky grin when Cam commented on the hours he spent working out. That conversation had taken place the first year. In Jack’s second year, Cam had been preoccupied with concerns regarding his career. Waning personal satisfaction in his work had driven him to go, as an author, in a different direction. Consequently, he’d changed publishers and hired a new agent, which had forced him to spend most of that year establishing himself. Was that when Jack had started to unravel? Cam wondered now. And why had none of the professionals at Rose Hill High noticed? If, as Cara said, Jack talked about giving up baseball, shouldn’t Monk Tyson have noticed? And Rachel. She was obviously very concerned today over one particular boy showing some of the same signs as Jack. Why hadn’t she noticed Jack when there was still time for her to do something?

  Too many questions. And no answers. Yet.

  Crossing the tarmac now, he walked to the chain-link fence that surrounded the practice field and kept at bay onlookers who might distract the athletes. They wore practice jerseys of motley designs, but after a minute, he managed to spot Nick in a group “staying loose” by passing the baseball around the bases. It took him a moment more to find Ward Rivers in a batting cage. Sensing an onlooker, Tyson turned and apparently recognized him. He blew a shrill whistle and yelled orders to one of the seniors to take over, then headed toward Cam.

  “Mr. Ford, good to see you.” Because of the fence, Tyson was unable to shake Cam’s hand, but his expression was friendly. “What do you think of my boys?”

  “They’re looking good,” Cam said, lifting a hand to wave at Nick.

  Tyson caught the exchange and his eyes narrowed. “You know Nick Forrester?”

  “His grandmother lives next door to me.”

  “Ah.” Tyson nodded slowly. “I heard Rachel and the kids moved in with her. Too bad about the divorce.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You here to pick him up?”

  “Nick? No. Actually, I’m here to talk to you—” he paused “—that is, if you’ve got a few minutes after practice. Or if that’s not convenient, just tell me when.”

  “No problem. Today’s fine. We’re about done, anyway. I like to wrap it up by five. That’s a long day for some of these kids, the ones whose parents let ’em stay up till midnight. No supervision. Of course, most of those types wash out of the program beginning of the season, but occasionally I’ll get a kid motivated in spite of irresponsible parents.” He gave a nod toward the batting cages. “Ferdy Jordan’s a good example. Comes from a broken home, Dad’s long gone, single mom trying to raise a coupla rug rats way younger than Ferdy with a different dad. Kid sets his own curfew which, you can imagine, isn’t what you or I would recommend. But he wants to play ball and as long as he can handle the program, he’s on the team.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Hey, I’m talking too much. Let me break this up and send these guys to the lockers and we’ll talk in my office.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll meet you there in ten…fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks.” Cam watched at the fence as, on command from Tyson, the athletes broke apart and headed for the door to the locker room. Nick and Ward fell into step together, but halfway there, Nick broke away and headed in Cam’s direction.

  “Hi, Cam,” he said, wiping sweat from his face and neck with a much-used towel. “I thought I recognized your wheels as you drove up. What’s going on?”

  “Not too much.” Cam lifted a hand, greeting Ward, who’d paused and was watching, but from a distance. “That was some workout Coach put on you guys.”

  “Yeah, he’s tough. We’re facing some heavy competition in the game Thursday, and he will not be happy if we screw up.”

  Cam glanced beyond him where Ward waited. “Do you need a lift home? I shouldn’t be too long here. I’ll drop Ward off at his house, too.”

  “No, that’s okay. Kristin Gates has her license now and she offered to give us a ride. She got a Series 3 Beamer for her birthday. Man, it’s too cool.”

  Cam raised both hands, palms out. “Whoa, say no more. I am clearly outranked.”

  “Ward’s got the hots for her, bad.”

  “And is the feeling mutual?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? You can’t tell about women.”

  “Amen to that.” Grinning, Cam gave a thumbs-up gesture, ready to head for Tyson’s office, but something on Nick’s face stopped him. With his fingers gripping the links in the fence, Nick looked at his feet for a moment, then back up into Cam’s face.

  “You’re not gonna say anything to Coach about me not wanting to keep on with his personal training, are you?”

  “That’s your business, Nick. To be honest, I’ve got some questions about Jack that I should have asked a long time ago. This isn’t about you.”

  His face cleared and he sighed with relief. “Great. Okay.” Backing away, he lifted a hand, then stopped. “Oh, I told Ward about helping with the flooring of the attic. All you gotta do is tell us the day and what time to be there. That is, if you still want to do it.”

  “I do,” Cam said, moving along the fence toward the gym while Nick walked on the opposite side. “I’ve got the supplies on order. I’ll call and get your mom’s okay when I get ready to do the job. Plans will change only if she needs you to do something that day for her.”

  “She’ll be cool with it.” Both paused at the entrance to the locker room.

  “Then, like I said, I’ll let you know. And to keep your strength up, I’ll stock up on root beer, chips and pizza.”

  Nick disappeared inside, grinning.

  Cam stood stock-still, listening to the rowdy racket. No other place sounded quite like a packed athletic locker room. Laughter mixed with whistles and raucous shouts echoed against walls insulated only by metal lockers and hard floors. And above it all blasted music with a booming beat. Some kind of rap, Cam thought. He endured it—and memories of Jack—for a minute more, then turned abruptly and headed for the double doors another fifty feet or so beyond that led to the front of the gym.

  Inside the windowless hall, it was difficult to see much in the fading daylight, but Cam recalled the general layout from the only other visit he’d made to see Tyson and now headed that way. Taking a left turn, he reached the office, gave a couple of raps on the closed door and was invited in. Tyson, who was sitting behind his massive desk like a king on a throne, rose as Cam entered.

  Cam thought that if Monk Tyson wanted to convey the power and p
restige of his position, then the trappings of his office achieved just that. All were evident, not only in the furnishings, but in the citations and photos on the wall. Cam stepped onto dark green carpet, thick and luxurious. Two leather club chairs—Moroccan leather, Cam guessed—faced the huge desk. A long, deep couch, also upholstered in Moroccan leather, was positioned on the far wall. In one corner stood a huge live plant, and in the opposite one, a glass curio cabinet held sports memorabilia. Impressive sports memorabilia, Cam noted. He didn’t recall Tyson’s office being as splendid on his last visit, but at that time, he could easily have missed a live elephant in the room. He’d been thinking only of Jack and burning to find someone to blame for the death of his son. Today he was more interested in digging deep to find out why.

  “Have a seat,” Tyson said, gesturing to one of the club chairs.

  “Thanks.” Cam sat. “I appreciate this. I’ll try to be brief.”

  “Take as long as you like.” Tyson leaned back in his chair. “It’s been, what, five years? By the way, I’ve read all your books. I’m a big fan.”

  “You like true crime?”

  “It’s fascinating to read about the evil in people, but doing the research must make you wonder sometimes what the world’s coming to.”

  “It does sometimes,” Cam agreed, “but as long as good triumphs over evil, I finish the books reassured that all’s right and God’s in his heaven.”

  “Yeah. Uh, is this about Nick?”

  “Nick? No, why? What made you ask?”

  Tyson shrugged. “Well, I saw you chatting him up just now, so you must be acquainted since you’re neighbors. Guess I made an erroneous assumption.” His lips formed a smile. “You know what they say about assuming.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Helluva athlete, Nick. I’d managed to arrange my schedule to carve out some one-on-one time for him and he comes to me a few days ago and says he appreciates it, but no thanks. Duties on the home front, he claimed.” Another smile. “I thought you might have some insight why.”