An Honorable Man

by Darlene Gardner

  “You think that’s funny, do you?” he asked.

  She nodded, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ve heard about kisses that make your head spin,” she said through her laughter, “but this is the first time I’ve experienced it.”

  He laughed with her, shocked that he could easily identify the emotion running through him. It was happiness. Instant remorse coursed through him that he could feel happy the day before his mother’s birthday in the town where she’d died.

  “There’s room enough for two,” Sierra said, moving over in the now-stable chair and patting the space beside her.

  He took her invitation, carefully lowering himself to join her. Still, the chair spun round. She laughed again. Just like that, his sorrow disappeared.

  “If Rafael Nadal didn’t already deserve the title,” she said, naming a top tennis player who was known for the heavy topspin he put on the ball, “I’d call you the spin master.”

  “A sports analogy from the woman watching the best show on television,” he said. “Nice. I’m starting to like you more and more.”

  She smiled at him, running a hand over the stubble on his lower face. “Clear something up for me. How can it look like you always need a shave yet you don’t develop a beard?”

  “I use an electric razor,” he said, “but I don’t bother putting on shaving cream or even wetting my skin.”

  “Because you like the no-shave look?”

  “Because I’m too lazy to bother,” he said, grinning. “I’m not a morning person.”

  “Me, neither. I use SportsCenter to help me wake up.” She smelled of coffee, toothpaste, shampoo and her scented moisturizer, diverse scents that somehow worked together. “I can’t start the day without the West Coast scores.”

  “So you’re a baseball fan?”

  She snuggled against him. “I’m a pro sports fan. Baseball, basketball, football, soccer, ice hockey. You’re lucky to live in a city with good pro sports teams.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said. “Tickets are tough to get for the Steelers and Penguins, but I have a friend who works for a ticket broker. He can get me deals on concerts, too.”

  “I love going to concerts,” she said. “And plays. Oh. And the symphony and the opera.”

  “Ah-ha,” he said. “A big-city girl at heart. So what are you doing in Indigo Springs?”

  They were sitting so close he felt her body jerk in surprise. “This is where I live. This is home.”

  “It doesn’t seem like a good fit for you,” he said.

  “It’s home,” she repeated stubbornly.

  “Any time you’re in Pittsburgh,” he said, “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “C’mon, Ben.” She cut her eyes at him. “We both know I’m not coming to visit you.”

  He felt himself frown. “How do we both know that?”

  “The same way we both know this isn’t real.”

  He ran his hand up and down her arm, enjoying the way she sighed in pleasure. “You feel real.”

  “Okay, real wasn’t the right word. I should have said temporary.” She emphasized the last word in the sentence. “We both know this is temporary.”

  His impulse was to argue with her, but that was ridiculous. Of course their relationship, however satisfying, wouldn’t last. He’d eventually return to Pittsburgh, and she’d stay in Indigo Springs, probably for the rest of her life.

  But he was here now—and so was she.

  No matter how much pressure his boss applied, he wasn’t going anywhere until he found out who sent that e-mail. To that end, he could spend the day recanvassing ground he’d already covered, looking for something he might have missed.

  Or he could put the story on hold and indulge himself—with Sierra.

  “What do you say we make the most of the time we do have?” he asked. “How about you taking the day off?”

  “I couldn’t do that!” She sounded like he’d suggested she hack off her arm.

  “Why not? When’s the last time you called in?”

  Her hesitation told him it had been a very long time. “That’s not the point,” she said. “I couldn’t put Ryan in that spot. There’s way too much work for one person.”

  He withdrew his arm from around her and managed to get his cell phone out of his jeans pocket. “We’ll see about that.”

  He pressed some keys, navigating to the phone number he wanted, glad he’d asked for it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He held up a finger while the phone was answered on the other end. “Ryan? Ben Nash here. Would it be okay if Sierra took the day off?”

  Her eyes formed the shape of the baseball that was currently being hit out of the park on SportsCenter. She grabbed for the phone, but he angled his body, easily keeping it away from her while he listened to Ryan’s response.

  “You can? Great. Thanks, man.” He hung up, taking advantage of her temporary muteness to explain, “He said he’ll call the nurse practitioner who works with you. She told him just yesterday she wanted to pick up some more hours.”

  “But…but…” she sputtered. “What must he think?”

  “He probably thinks it’s about time his sister had some fun.” He continued before she could protest further. “I’ve got to shower and get a change of clothes at the hotel, but after that I’m all yours. So what do you want to do? Whitewater rafting? Mountain biking?”

  Her mouth opened and closed, as though she wasn’t sure whether to keep protesting. “I like to watch sports, but I’m not very athletic,” she finally said. “I try to keep in shape, but outdoor sports aren’t my thing.”

  He noticed the exercise bike in the corner of the room, the Wii Fit beside her television.

  “Then how about a hike?” he asked. “You can handle that much outdoors, can’t you?”

  “Of course I can,” she said. “I’m just not real sure I can handle you.”

  “Oh, but you can,” he said in a suggestive voice. “Now that you don’t have to go to work, I’ll let you handle me before we go on that hike.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s a really lame line.”

  “I know,” he said. “But did it work?”

  The corners of her mouth twitched, betraying the smile she was fighting.

  “All I ask is that you be gentle with me,” he said.

  Her smile broke free. Since they were already touching from shoulder to thigh, it didn’t take much maneuvering before they were in each other’s arms, with the passion of their kisses accelerating with dizzying speed.

  Ben couldn’t say for certain who made the first move. If pressed, he’d say they both had.

  “YOU DID NOT!” Sierra laughed up at Ben, her eyes sparkling. The Tuesday afternoon sun bathed the downtown of Indigo Springs in light, bringing out the healthy glow of her skin.

  “Sure did,” Ben said. “I told the managing editor I wouldn’t take the job at the Tribune without a guarantee I could veto assignments.”

  “But you just said it was your dream job to be an investigative reporter.”

  “It is. That’s why I made sure I wouldn’t find myself covering the school board or writing obits.”

  “Why would you take a chance like that when newspapers all over the country are struggling? What if he’d said no?”

  “He didn’t.”

  Sierra’s ponytail swung when she shook her head. She was dressed more informally than he’d ever seen her, in khaki shorts, a Massachusetts General Hospital T-shirt and tennis shoes. “I couldn’t gamble like that.”

  He cupped his hand under her elbow. “Maybe you should.”

  “Maybe I am.” Her eyes danced. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

  He could have pointed out she was hardly taking a risk, considering the fleeting nature of their relationship, but didn’t want to think about that. Not today when he had her to himself.

  They were on their way to the printer to pick up updated fliers. After their hike Sierra had got
ten a call from Quincy Coleman explaining the originals had the festival ending on Monday instead of Sunday. Coleman had heard she wasn’t at work and asked if she could pick up the new flyers and distribute them. Ben had readily offered to help.

  “The printer’s name is Mr. Porter,” Sierra told him as they approached the shop. “Don’t let him fool you. He seems like a crusty old man, but underneath he’s a sweetheart.”

  Ben held the door open for her, then stepped inside a small shop dominated by copy machines and shelves filled with packages of paper. The smell of ink assaulted him. Behind a long, narrow counter at the back of the shop was a man on the far end of seventy. He was stoop-shouldered with wisps of white hair barely covering his scalp.

  “About time somebody got here. Those flyers have been ready since this morning,” the man bit out. Mr. Porter, Ben presumed. “Who’s that with you, Sierra?”

  “This is Ben Nash.” Sierra walked with Ben toward the counter. Up close, the man seemed smaller but no less animated. “Ben, this is Mr. Porter. He’s been running Porter’s Printing since I was a girl.”

  “I only regret I waited until my fifties to do it,” he said as he pumped Ben’s hand. “I bought this place eighteen years ago after I quit the most god-awful, boring job known to man.”

  “Accountant?” Ben guessed, picking a math-intensive profession. He had little affinity for the subject.

  “What kind of damn fool guess is that?” Mr. Porter scoffed, shaking his head. “A bank teller. I was never more glad to get away from a place. And then there’s Quincy Coleman, to this day telling me I should have stayed on longer, that old fool.”

  Ben chuckled. “Looks like you’ve made a good business for yourself.”

  “Used to be a great business before newspapers started losing circulation. My printing press hardly gets a workout.” He inclined his head toward Ben. “You must know all about that, being in the business yourself.”

  “How do you know I work for a newspaper?” Ben asked.

  “Not much gets by me,” he said. “I heard you’re working on a story about Allison.”

  Ben’s heart stuttered at Mr. Porter’s use of his mother’s first name. “Did you know her?” he asked, his voice sharper than he’d intended.

  “Not enough to be of any help to you, I’m afraid,” Mr. Porter said.

  Ben struggled to keep from demanding Mr. Porter immediately tell him everything he knew. “I’d like to hear whatever you do remember about her.”

  The old man stared at Ben through eyes narrowed behind his glasses. It seemed a long time before he said, “You’re her son, aren’t you?”

  Ben cocked his head curiously. “How did you know that?”

  “Why else would you be so interested in something that happened twenty years ago?” he asked. “Besides, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  Before his mother’s death, strangers had commented on their resemblance. Even afterward, family members and friends mentioned it. Nobody had noted the likeness in a very long time. “You must have known her fairly well if you remember what she looked like.”

  “I remember because she was a beautiful woman. And because of those posters of her,” he said. “I only met her the one time.”

  Once could be enough to get Ben’s investigation on track. “When was that?”

  “When she came into the bank,” he said. “Broke up the boredom, I’ll tell you that much. She asked about opening an account.”

  “For my grandparents?” At the printer’s blank look, Ben clarified, “Leonard and Barbara Blaine. They were her parents.”

  “I know who they were,” Mr. Porter said. “They used to come into the bank themselves. They didn’t need their daughter opening an account for them.”

  “You just said that was the reason she was in the bank,” Ben said.

  “Pay attention, son. I said she asked about opening an account. For herself. ’Cept she didn’t. Something to do with not having the minimum balance to avoid fees.”

  It made sense that his mother couldn’t come up with the minimum balance. It didn’t compute that she’d need a local bank account—unless she planned to leave his father and relocate to Indigo Springs. Except that didn’t add up, either. He didn’t recall his parents ever sharing an angry word and specifically remembered his mother telling him they were visiting.

  “Are you sure?” Ben asked.

  “As sure as I can be about anything after twenty years,” Mr. Porter said. “She went missing the very next day. A shame, it was. I always felt bad I didn’t help in the search.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I was golfing. Before I hurt my back, I was always playing in some tournament or another,” he said. “I spent too much time on the nineteenth hole. By the time I got home, the search had been called off on account of darkness. Frank Sublinski found her body the next day.”

  Mr. Porter kept talking, telling Ben how sorry he was that his mother had died the way she did, mouthing platitudes about what a nice woman she’d been.

  Ben accepted the comments in silence, acknowledging them with a slow nod that felt weighed down by sadness.

  “You about ready for those fliers, Sierra?” Mr. Porter asked.

  The printer’s use of Sierra’s name snapped Ben back to the present. He’d been so engrossed in finding out what Mr. Porter knew he’d nearly forgotten Sierra was standing next to him.

  “I’m ready,” Sierra said.

  Ben touched her lightly on the back while the printer got the stack of fliers together. She met his gaze briefly, all of the earlier levity in her eyes gone. That was unsurprising considering she knew tomorrow was his mother’s birthday.

  It all cycled back to his mother.

  His chance conversation with Mr. Porter gave him another avenue to explore. Ben could get back in touch with Quincy Coleman, the retired president of the local bank, to see if he remembered Ben’s mother stopping by. He could also visit the library again and possibly jog someone’s memory about who’d been using the computers when mountaindweller sent the e-mail.

  For now, though, he planned to put his sadness on hold and enjoy the rest of the day with Sierra.

  “DO YOU ACCEPT the challenge?” Ben’s loud, dramatic voice rose above the whirring, beeping video machines that made the Indigo Springs Arcade a popular afternoon hangout.

  “Considering you dragged me here by calling me a chicken in short shorts,” Sierra said, “I don’t see I have a choice.”

  “You don’t,” he agreed cheerfully.

  She gazed down at the undersized basketball she held, which looked to be about the size of the rims attached to two horizontal hoops. The object of the game was to sink more shots than your opponent.

  “Then let’s do it,” Sierra said.

  He pressed a button, switching on a mechanical voice that counted down from three. As soon as the voice gave the prompt, Sierra let her basketball fly. It swooshed through the hoop while Ben’s rimmed out. A score of 1-0 appear in red neon letters above the hoops.

  Beginner’s luck, Sierra thought. She grabbed for another ball and shot again. Another basket! Adrenaline coursed through her.

  “Swish!” someone yelled. She was surprised to realize she was that someone.

  “The battle’s just beginning,” Ben cried out.

  They fired basketballs at the hoop with frenzied abandon, with Sierra’s shock at her rate of success rivaled only by the joy of her laughter.

  She couldn’t help herself. It was just so much darn fun. The artificial voice signaled time was running out. Sierra managed to fling up four more basketballs, three of which hit the mark.

  A shrill buzzer sounded. Holding her breath, she checked the final score. It wasn’t even close. She’d won by a two-to-one margin.

  She raised her arms in the air, whooped and did a little dance. Ben grinned.

  “Enjoyed that, did you?” He didn’t say he’d told her she would, not that she would have minded. The novelty of vict
ory was too thrilling. “You didn’t tell me you were a ringer.”

  “I’ve never played this game before in my life!”

  “Don’t ask if I was on my high school basketball team,” he said, “because I won’t answer on the grounds that it may embarrass me.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t make you wave a white flag.” She edged closer to him so their bodies touched, then spoke into his ear. “That would be letting you off too easily. I’ll think of another way for you to pay up.”

  “I should lose more often,” he said.

  A delicious shiver traveled the length of her body. For what seemed like the hundredth time, she reassured herself she was doing the right thing by not telling him her father was in town when his mother died.

  What purpose would it serve other than to needlessly raise his suspicions? She knew in her heart—no, in her very soul—her father was blameless in Allison Blaine’s death.

  If he hadn’t already, Ben was very close to reaching the inevitable conclusion his mother had died exactly the way he’d been told. In an accident. It would be cruel, especially on the eve of his mother’s birthday, to tell him anything that might cause him to keep probing into the incident.

  “How about I make you dinner?” he asked.

  “You can cook?”

  “It’s one of my many talents.” He exaggerated a suggestive voice. “Let’s get out of here and you can start sampling them.”

  She was laughing when he took her hand and led her toward the exit. The place was populated mostly by teenagers, but parents stood by as much younger children played skeet ball and some of the simpler games.

  A boy about four years old dashed onto the sidewalk when Ben held the front door of the arcade open for Sierra.

  “Nathan! No!” a woman cried.

  Ben was through the door in an instant, bending over and swooping up the boy. Judging by the little guy’s still-churning legs, he hadn’t seen the interception coming. He was a cutie, even with his flushed cheeks and hairline damp with sweat.

  “Where you going in such a hurry, buddy?” Ben asked.

  “I scream!” the boy yelled.

  He had that right, Sierra thought.

  “I scream,” the boy repeated, pointing to a white truck with a large sliding window traveling down Main Street. The vehicle was brightly decorated with images of Popsicles, sodas and, lastly, ice cream. Its jingle was off, signaling the driver had called it quits for the day.