As Maggie heard Sam back out of the garage, she was certain of two things. She had forgiven Sam. But he would never forgive himself.
Detective Shaw was like an oscillating fan, alternating her gaze from the clock to the office door as each minute passed. The lieutenant—Sam—should have been in hours ago. She suffered through the weekend as one hour wearily dragged into the next until finally Monday morning arrived. She woke up early, showered, and dressed in the outfit she had laid out the evening before—grey slacks that sat low on her hips and a jewel green blouse, close-fitting and tucked in to reveal her trim waistline. The blouse, long hidden away in her closet, was specifically chosen for the occasion. It had been Sam’s favorite. The color, he once said, made her eyes sultry. Would he remember?
Nikki tried to concentrate on the case in front of her, an identity theft, typically tough to solve, but this case looked promising. Recent activity on the victim’s credit card put the suspect at the Cape Spring Mall Saturday afternoon. Nikki made calls to store managers who agreed to let her view security video, which is what she should be doing now, instead of sitting at her desk, waiting.
Waiting for a man whose wife’s name was recently engraved on a tombstone. Was this the woman she had become? What happened to the girl who sang in the church choir? The girl who scorned the teenagers who partied all weekend and dozed through her grandpa’s sermons on Sunday? Who would have guessed that Miss Goody-Two-Shoes would become The Girl Most Likely? Certainly not Nikki. But she never knew she would meet a man like Samuel Blake. The place in life she found herself was so far from the life she had planned, but she didn’t know how to find her way back. And now that Sam was alone, she wasn’t sure she wanted to find her way back.
She heard him before she saw him. As Sam’s voice drew closer, her heartbeat echoed in her head. She fought for control, which she gained in mere seconds. She had become an expert at suppressing her emotions. Detachment had become her most important survival skill, personally and professionally. With no uncertainty, Sam had made sure she knew they were over. But she had fallen in love with him. And working beside him every day was a privilege she kept only through circumstance. Sam threatened to transfer her out of the detective division, but the one night they’d spent together in Atlanta had given her power. Sam’s career goals ranked higher than lieutenant stripes, but sleeping with a subordinate and walking out on her the next morning could have professional ramifications. Not that Nikki planned to play her wild card. After all, she had aspirations to make rank herself, and the secret she shared with Sam might someday play in her favor.
Sam passed the office door, walking in step with the chief.
“You aren’t thinking clearly, Sam.”
Nikki detected frustration in the chief’s voice.
“Yes, I am.” Sam was insistent.
Nikki moved to the filing cabinet near the door. As she pretended to search for a file, her eyes followed the two men as they approached the chief’s office. The chief stepped inside, but Sam stopped in the doorway. He reached inside his sport coat and pulled out his service weapon. Then he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his silver badge. Nikki’s hand covered her mouth too late to stifle her gasp. She watched as Sam handed over the two items that identified him as an officer of the law.
“I’m going to HR to get the paperwork started.” Sam turned away from the chief.
Nikki watched until he disappeared through the double doors leading to the administrative offices. Fearing she could no longer resist the urge to go after him, she grabbed the keys off her desk and walked in the opposite direction. She had security videos to watch.
CHAPTER 15
Sam pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. Letters painted on the window read Joe Friendly’s. This wasn’t Sam’s first trip to this bar. He broke up a bar fight or two during his day on patrol, and investigations brought him here on occasion, looking for information or a suspect. But what brought him here now? After sitting a few minutes, he pushed open the car door.
Sam surveyed his surroundings as he walked in. A couple of men were shooting pool in the back. Another drank alone in a booth near the entrance. The place was nearly empty, not surprising for a Monday afternoon. He walked to the bar and chose a stool facing the entrance, obeying a rule of law enforcement, to never sit with his back to the door. The bartender was at the far end, stacking clean glasses on the shelves below the bar.
“Be right with you, my friend.”
As the bartender approached, Sam sensed he was being studied. He raised his chin and met the face of a woman, who, by appearance, had lived life hard. Grey pushed through a faded dye job. Deep creases circled her mouth and defined her brow. But her smile was easy and inviting. “What can I get you?”
Sam gave a half grin and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
As the bartender’s blue eyes stared into his, Sam felt like she was reading his soul. “You don’t know? Well, sometimes the drink depends on the occasion. What brings you here on a Monday afternoon? Forgetting or celebrating?”
Sam contemplated. “Celebrating.”
“Yeah? What are we celebrating, friend? I might have a drink with you.”
“Retirement.” The word sounded foreign as it rolled off Sam’s lips. “Twenty-two years with the police department. Time to hang it up.” I think, Sam added silently, certain no option could possibly surface, allowing him to be both the detective he wanted to be and the father he needed to be.
“Is that right? Well, that definitely calls for a celebration. A drink for us both.” She arched her eyebrows, waiting for him to name his drink.
He shrugged. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
The bartender smiled. “Good choice. My name’s Roxy, by the way.”
“Sam.”
“Okay, Sam. Let’s get this party started.” Roxy pulled two tall glasses from beneath the counter, filled them with ice, a beverage from a decanter, and finished it with a shot. She pushed the drink toward Sam and took a sip of her own.
Sam put both hands around his glass, letting the coolness soak into his palms. He breathed in deeply and looked up to find Roxy still watching him.
“Somehow this doesn’t seem like much of a celebration.”
He didn’t answer. Instead he looked back at the bartender, trying to detect the face hidden beneath the mask that life had painted on her. He bet she had been an attractive girl once.
“Five bucks says you got a story, Sam. Everybody’s got a story. Been tending this bar twenty-five years. I’ve heard them all.”
“Everybody’s got one, huh? Well, what’s yours?” Sam deferred, and leaned forward to rest his arms on the bar.
“Hmm.” Roxy puckered. “Now that’s a question nobody ever asks a bartender.”
“Well, I’m asking.” Sam watched as Roxy’s eyes transported her somewhere, some time ago.
“My story. Let’s see . . . married too young. He was a jerk, of course. Left me with two young boys and no income. Got a job checking groceries, but it wasn’t enough to feed the kids. Then a friend got me a job waiting these tables here on the weekends. Tips were good. Before long, I went full time, Monday through Saturday. Worked every hour I could get. Except Sunday. Sunday was for my boys, Taylor, Brandon, and Jesus.”
Sam cocked his head, wondering if he misunderstood.
“Didn’t take me for a holy roller, did you?” A grin deepened the lines in her face.
He tried to picture the woman now standing behind the bar instead sitting in a pew, singing hymns or reciting the Lord’s prayer. “But you’re a bartender, no offense.”
Roxy laughed. “None taken. Not by me anyway. But plenty of church people have taken offense over the years, that’s for sure.” She placed her arms on the bar and leaned in, mirroring Sam. “But you know what? I don’t answer to them. I answer to my Lord God Almighty. And they’ll have to answer to Him someday, too.”
Sam grunted disapproval. “See, that’s what I
don’t get. There you were, a good Christian girl, doing your best to raise your boys alone, and you end up—” Sam turned his palms up, swept the bar with his eyes, and shrugged. “What I’d like to know is where’s God in all that?”
“Oh, He’s in it plenty.” Roxy nodded, her lips pressed in a tight line. “But I used to ask the same thing. I prayed for a better job. Prayed and prayed. The offers I got didn’t pay. The jobs that paid weren’t offered. Actually, I got pretty angry with God for a while. I thought He was punishing me for working here, but He sure wasn’t opening any other doors for me.” Roxy took a long sip of her drink and pointed to Sam’s. “You gonna drink that?” He rotated the full glass in front of him.
“It’s my specialty.” She held up her glass, toasted the air, and continued. “Anyway, one day the owner, Joe, says he wants to teach me to tend bar. Before long, I got a raise and better tips. And that’s when it hit me. God just gave me a better job with better pay. He obviously wasn’t going to get me out of the bar, so I realized then that He must have me here for a reason.”
“What reason would that be?” Skepticism was clear in Sam’s voice.
“Well, here’s how I see it. If Jesus came back to live in this world today, I don’t see Him hanging out in the churches.” Roxy laughed and shook her head. “Although there are certainly some people there who wouldn’t recognize Him if he sang in the choir. No, I imagine Jesus would be visiting this bar, and He’d be down at the shelter on Broadway, places like that, searching for people who don’t know Him, people who are hurting. But He’s not here in this bar walking around in the flesh. I am. And I think there’s a reason for that.”
“Really?” Sam challenged. “Such as?”
Roxy studied him again. “You, for one, maybe. Why are you here? In the middle of a Monday afternoon, celebrating retirement, alone?”
Sam looked at his hands. “Well, if you think I came in here by some divine providence so you could save my soul, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Roxy. God and I have an understanding.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I leave Him alone, and He leaves me alone.” As Sam heard the words escape his mouth, for a brief moment he felt dark, detached. He diverted the feeling by tossing judgment at Roxy. “So, how do you account for all the alcohol you serve? Do you know how many fatalities and assaults and domestics I’ve worked because of alcohol?”
“Good point, my friend. But, you know, if someone wants to drink, they’re going to find a bar, whether I’m the one tending it or not. When they come here, I keep track of how much they drink and tell them when they’ve had enough. If I need to, I take car keys and call cabs. And you know what? Customers come back and tips are still good.”
He wasn’t convinced, but Roxy had given him a perspective he hadn’t considered.
“Besides, I’m only fifty percent bartender. The other half the time I’m a counselor. Hurting people come in here every day, needing someone to listen. And sometimes I get the chance to speak a little truth into their lives.” Roxy emptied her glass and wiped away the wet ring it left on the bar. “So, that’s my story, friend. And yours?”
Sam turned the cool glass in his hands while Roxy waited. What was his story? He didn’t know where to begin, or how much to tell, or why he was enticed to share anything with this bartender he’d just met. He decided on the basics, no details. “My wife died. I’ve got two girls to raise. Can’t do it being a detective. Have my twenty years in, so I’m retiring.” As his eyes met hers, he sensed a confession rising. He stared into his glass and spoke more to himself than to Roxy. “This job made me a good detective . . . but it broke my marriage, broke me as a father. I need to fix that.”
Roxy placed her hand over his and stared hard into him. “You’ll do what you have to do. I did. And I know you don’t want to hear this now, but God is at work. We can’t see it because we don’t know what to look for. But one day you’ll look back, just like I do, and you’ll wonder how you missed it.” She straightened up and laughed. “Yep, someday you’re gonna walk back in here, my friend, and tell me all about it, about how you see God.”
Sam shook his head and gestured toward her empty glass. “I think that went to your head.”
“What? A little raspberry iced tea? No, I can handle my caffeine pretty well.” She winked.
“Ice tea, huh?” One corner of his mouth curved as he raised his glass to take a drink. “Roxy, you’re a complex woman.”
“No. I’m pretty simple really. I just try to do the next right thing.”
The next right thing? That was the mystery that plagued Sam, but suddenly the picture started to come into focus. Maybe. Was it time for him to accept that he knew what the right thing was? But it just seemed so . . . not him. So then, what was it? Sam pushed back from the bar and took out his wallet. “Roxy, it’s been a pleasure, but I’ve got some business to take care of.”
“The pleasure’s been mine, my friend. Put your money away. The drink’s on the house.” Roxy picked up his empty glass and wiped the bar.
“Thanks, Roxy.” Sam patted the bar and hesitated. “I mean, thanks, really.”
She smiled, and as Sam walked out of the bar into the glare of the afternoon sun, he chuckled at the absurdity of God using a bartender. He wasn’t close to being convinced, but he was willing to admit Roxy was one-of-a-kind.
What a horrible day. Rachel’s teachers must have had a secret meeting in the teachers’ lounge to coordinate their efforts and pounce on her all at once. During pre-algebra Mrs. Brunk placed a note on Rachel’s desk, Please see me after class. The teacher was distracted with helping a student when the bell rang, so Rachel took the opportunity to sneak out unnoticed. Besides, Mrs. Brunk wasn’t going to tell her anything she didn’t already know. She didn’t get so lucky in English. After Ms. Campbell gave a reading assignment, she called Rachel to her desk. Although she whispered her concerns about Rachel’s inattentiveness, missed assignments, and plummeting grade, Rachel was certain the entire class could hear. She glanced at the other students only to find their eyes glued on the pages they were reading, but she still felt publicly humiliated. Ms. Campbell put her hand on Rachel’s shoulder to call her attention back to the conversation and assured her she knew this was a difficult time for her, and that Rachel must let her know how she could help. And then there was Mr. Beard. He had tried to give Rachel a chance to salvage her grade and redo the science project, but she didn’t take it. He was monitoring the hall and stopped her before she entered the classroom. She had given him no choice but to flunk her for the quarter. Rachel kept her head down as she walked to her lab table.
She didn’t like it. She didn’t like being confronted by her teachers. She didn’t like that her grades were dropping. But mostly she didn’t like the sympathetic disappointment in the teachers’ voices. Behind the words they spoke, she could hear, “We know your mom is dead. We are so sorry about that. But here are the assignments you didn’t turn in and the tests you bombed and you don’t pay attention in class and. . . .”
Rachel wanted to scream. “What does it matter? Why should anything matter? Do you really think solving linear equations or finding symbolism in a poem matters to me? And you want to know how technology changed my life? Well, let me tell you. I sent a text, and now my mom is dead! Is that enough change for you?” Maybe saying that out loud would be easier than listening silently as teachers tried to pressure her into thinking whatever they had to teach her was more important than having a mother.
Then there was Kristen. Why couldn’t she let things be? She caught Rachel after science, trying to make small talk, hanging at her elbow as Rachel pushed past students in the hall, squeezing through the congestion to force Kristen back. By the time she reached her locker, Kristen was several steps behind, maneuvering her way through the crowd. Rachel opened her locker and traded her science book for American history. When she closed her locker door, Kristen was waiting, fury in her eyes. Rachel was surprised when it didn’t come out in her vo
ice.
“I don’t know what to do, Rachel, how to make things all right. You don’t return my texts. You won’t talk to me. You avoid me at school. You won’t even give me a chance to say I’m sorry.” Kristen pulled at her ponytail and adjusted her backpack. “I just want to be friends again.”
How was she supposed to respond to that? Perhaps honestly would be best. “Kristen, you can’t help me. No one can help me. And you just think you want to be friends. You don’t know me anymore.” Rachel looked down.
Kristen held back no longer. “Oh, but this Cricket girl somehow knows you? We’ve been friends since like forever, but all of a sudden you go through a really bad time in life and some pierced freak with pink hair is the friend you turn to?”
“You don’t understand—”
“No! I don’t understand! You’re right, Rachel, I don’t know you. And I’m finished trying.” Kristen slammed her fist into Rachel’s locker. “Finished!”
Hollow and bruised, Rachel whispered as she watched her former best friend blend into the stream of students moving to sixth hour. “I don’t even know me anymore.”
And now the text from her dad: Picking up Olivia; ride bus. Was he kidding? Her mom never made her ride the school bus. It was a social feeding frenzy, and Rachel found herself at the bottom of the food chain more than once, begging for a seat, picking spit wads out of her hair, listening to the filth pour from the mouths of the sharks who dominated the back of the bus. Her mom always kept her schedule open so she could pick her up from school, and on the rare occasion when she couldn’t, Rachel would catch a ride with Kristen’s mom. But that wasn’t an option. Instead, she grabbed her phone and texted: can i get a ride? Within seconds her phone buzzed with a reply, and she walked to the front entrance of the school.
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