by Irene Hannon
He felt as if someone had kicked him in the gut.
“I had no idea you felt that way.” The words came out hoarse and ragged, and he raked shaky fingers through his hair. “I was in a lot of emotional pain, and I was angry at everyone and everything, but…Cara, I would never, ever have done anything to hurt you physically.”
Her silence told Sam that she wasn’t sure she could believe him. And that was like a second kick. “I’m sorry, Cara. For all my mistakes. I promise you it would be different this time.”
“Look, give me a few days, okay? We’ll talk then.”
Realizing that the subject was closed for now, he gave a resigned nod. “If you have trouble sleeping tonight, let me know.”
“Thanks.”
Left alone, Sam’s shoulders drooped as he lowered his head into his hands. He was asking a lot of Cara. Perhaps too much. She’d put up with him when he was inattentive, endured his arrogance, suffered through his bitterness. Even lived in fear at the end, as he’d just been appalled to learn.
Despite all his faults, she’d kept loving him, believing that somewhere, deep inside him, the man she’d fallen in love with still lived. And he’d repaid her loyalty and love by coming dangerously close to violating the vows of fidelity they’d taken on the day they were wed. In light of that ultimate betrayal, it was no wonder she had left him.
As Sam examined the stark, ugly reality of his behavior, his spirits plummeted. How could he expect Cara to forgive him for all he’d done to destroy their relationship? He couldn’t even forgive himself.
Yet how could he go on if she didn’t?
Chapter Thirteen
The Oak Hill Police Department was nothing like the busy, noisy precinct headquarters she’d visited with Liz in Philadelphia, Cara noted in relief as Dale ushered her into his homey office. Multiple pictures of Jenna were displayed on the oak bookshelves that took up most of one wall. A large picture window looked out over the tree-shaded yard next door, where colorful zinnias seemed oblivious to the late-July heat and humidity, already oppressive at ten in the morning. The seat Dale led her to was upholstered and comfortable, unlike the wooden, straight-backed chair in Philly. And there was another important difference, too.
This time, Sam was by her side.
“Can I get you some water, Cara?”
Turning, she managed to give Dale a tremulous smile as she sat. “Yes, thanks.” She twisted her hands in her lap and tried to focus on one of the carefree, smiling photos of Jenna, determined to get through this without falling apart.
As she angled her head, Sam assessed her, his expression concerned. Despite his request, she’d refused to eat any breakfast. And the dark smudges under her eyes, their sooty color emphasized by her pallor, indicated that she’d slept very little. The rapid rise and fall of her chest, her clenched hands, and the tautness of her features told him she was hanging on to her composure by a thread.
“I talked to Philly again first thing this morning to go over the procedure.” Dale reentered the room and handed her a bottle of cold water. As he spoke, he positioned the speakerphone in the middle of his desk and retrieved another chair from the hall outside his office, which he placed near Cara’s. “Two detectives will be on the call. Chad Miller and Mark Fernandez. I believe Chad was one of the officers who spoke with you after the shooting.”
“Yes.” Cara had only a vague recollection of the detective. All her memories of that traumatic interview were hazy.
“They’ll want you to walk through the events that took place that night, guided by their questions. It might be good to close your eyes as you do that, to help you focus. Total concentration can often bring back details that could be important.”
At the sudden ring of the phone, Cara’s hand jerked and she dropped the unopened bottle of water. Dale bent to retrieve it, setting it by her chair, as Sam reached for her hand. When she looked his way, he entwined his fingers with hers and gave them a gentle squeeze.
For the first couple of minutes, Dale spoke into the receiver. Then he punched a button to activate the speakerphone and took his seat. “We’re set on this end.”
“Ms. Martin? Detective Miller. We met several weeks ago.”
“I remember.”
“Thank you for speaking with us today. For the record, we’ll be recording this conversation.”
“Detective Fernandez here, Ms. Martin. As you know, we’re investigating what appear to be related incidents. We’re hoping our conversation with you might turn up some new information that will link the suspect from the most recent crime to the one you were involved in. This robbery occurred in the same vicinity as the restaurant where you work, and the victim was able to give us some helpful information that allowed us to make an arrest. The similarities between the crimes lead us to believe that they’re linked.”
“We know this is difficult for you, so we’ll try to do it as quickly as we can,” Detective Miller added. “I understand that in addition to the sheriff, Dr. Martin is also in the room. Dr. Martin, can you verify that for the record?”
“Yes. This is Sam Martin.”
“All right. Let’s get started,” the detective continued. “We’d like you to tell us what happened, beginning with your exit from the restaurant that night, Ms. Martin. Give us every detail you remember—nothing is too small to ignore. We may interrupt with a few questions as you go along. We’re in no hurry, so take your time. Please begin whenever you’re ready.”
Fighting down the panic bubbling up inside her, Cara looked at the sheriff, who gave her an encouraging nod. On her other side, Sam squeezed her hand and edged his chair a bit closer. Recalling the sheriff’s advice, Cara took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Please, Lord, help me get through this without breaking down. And help me remember something that will assist these men in bringing Tony’s killer to justice.
Slowly, in a halting, unsteady voice, Cara began to recount the events of the attack, struggling all the while to rein in her panic, to slow her pulse, to control the nausea that threatened to gag her. When she came to the part where the assailant grabbed her, however, the words caught in her throat and her eyes flew open. She tried to draw in some air, but her lungs seemed frozen. She gasped, and her grip tightened on Sam’s hand.
“Hold on a second, guys.” Dale directed his comment toward the phone while he picked up her water, twisting off the cap as he shot Sam a worried look.
“Cara, it’s okay.” Sam leaned close, smoothing the hair back from her damp forehead. He’d brought some medication with him, but he’d prefer not to use it if he could talk her through this and avert a full-fledged attack. “Take a slow, deep breath. Come on, do it with me, sweetheart. Breathe in…good…hold it…okay, now let it out slow and easy. Good. Let’s do that again.”
Within a couple of minutes, Cara’s breathing steadied, and some of the tension in her features eased. When Sam reached for the water bottle, Dale handed it over. He put it up to Cara’s lips, and her hand closed over his. “Take a drink, sweetheart. I’ll help you.” Together they tilted the bottle, and Cara took a long swallow. When they lowered the bottle, Sam gave her an assessing look. “Do you think you can continue?”
“I—I’ll try.”
Although her grip on his hand had loosened, her fingers were still ice cold. He moved his chair even closer and slipped his free arm around her shoulders before nodding to Dale.
“Okay, guys, we’re ready to continue,” the sheriff said.
Sam’s solid body pressed close beside her, and the protective circle of his arm, gave Cara the courage to go on. As she described the way the man had grabbed her and pressed the barrel of the gun to her head, Detective Miller interrupted.
“Ms. Martin, could you recount the conversation for us word for word at this point, as best you can remember?”
Swallowing, Cara forced herself to concentrate, letting the verbal exchange replay in her mind instead of thinking about the terror of that cold metal against her temple. “The
man said to Tony, ‘Don’t try to be no macho hero, man. Just give me the money or this little lady ain’t gonna see tomorrow. And neither will you.’ When Tony took out his wallet, the guy said, ‘That’s better. Put it on the ground and kick it my direction.’ After Tony did that, the guy laughed and said, ‘Okeydoke. Now you’re being smart.’”
“Could you repeat that last line, Ms. Martin?” Detective Fernandez said.
“He said, ‘Okeydoke. Now you’re being smart.’”
“Thank you. Please continue.”
“He shoved me to the ground and reached for the wallet. Tony lunged for him. They scuffled, and he…he fired the gun. Tony fell. The man didn’t say anything else. He just moved toward me and…pointed the gun in my direction. He looked at me for several seconds. I thought he…was going to shoot me, too. But he r-ran off instead.” By the end of Cara’s recitation, her words were choppy, and she was starting to have trouble breathing again.
“We’re going to take another little break here, guys,” Dale said toward the speaker.
“No problem. We’ll wait.”
Hearing Cara recount the trauma in all its horror, watching fear distort her features as she spoke of facing death, realizing how close he had come to losing her, had been like a knife twisting in Sam’s stomach. Her whole body was trembling and, despite Sam’s aversion to public displays of affection, he rose and pulled her up beside him, wrapping his arms around her in a comforting embrace, pressing her head against his chest.
“It’s okay. Take some long, slow breaths like you did before and you’ll be fine, sweetheart. We’re almost finished here.” He sent a questioning glance over her shoulder to Dale, who confirmed the statement with a nod.
Not until her trembling subsided and her respiration had regulated did Sam loosen his embrace. Backing up, he searched her pale face. “Are you up to continuing?”
“Yes.”
He released her, but this time she reached for his hand, clutching it tightly as she retook her seat.
“Okay, guys. Dale here. What else do you need? I’m not sure we can keep this up much longer.”
“We only have a couple more questions,” Detective Miller assured them. “You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Martin. Now I’d like you to focus on the gun. Picture it in the assailant’s hand. Take a minute to review that in your mind. See if there’s anything distinctive you can tell us.”
“I don’t know anything about guns, Detective.”
“That’s okay. Humor us on this. Think of how it looked in his hand, and any motions he might have made with it.”
Puzzled, Cara once more closed her eyes. She thought of the man brandishing the gun at them when he popped out from behind a car in the parking lot. Remembered the glint off the metal barrel, a reflection from the security light overhead. Pictured it pointed at Tony and her. Felt the metal pressed to her forehead after he’d grabbed her, his arm so tight against her throat as he pulled her against him that she could hardly breathe. Visualized it aimed at her as she cowered on the ground, less than two feet away from the deadly barrel.
But then, to her surprise, she saw something else. In the scuffle with Tony, the man’s shirt must have ripped, because she could see his forearm now. As well as a tattoo, illuminated by the overhead light.
Her eyes flew open, and she gasped. Instantly, Sam leaned close, searching her face. “Cara? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I just remembered that the man had a tattoo.”
“Can you describe it?” The intensity in Detective Fernandez’s voice wasn’t lost on anyone in the room.
Squeezing her eyes shut again, Cara once more pictured the scene. “The overhead security light was shining on it. It was on his right arm, above his wrist. Two colors. Blue and orange. It looked like some kind of bird.” She tried to come up with more detail, but it eluded her. “I’m sorry. That’s all I can remember.”
“That’s more than enough,” Detective Miller told her. “You’ve been a great help today. Both the tattoo and the unusual slang expression are valuable links between the two assaults. That’s all we need for now. Sheriff Lewis, Dr. Martin, thank you both for assisting. And special thanks to you, Ms. Martin. I know this was difficult for you.”
After wrapping up the call, Dale turned to Cara. “You did a remarkable job.”
“Your coaching helped. When I closed my eyes, I did remember some things that I didn’t realize I’d noticed. How did you know that would work?”
“I spent a lot of years on the police force in L.A. and I picked up a few tricks along the way.” He turned to Sam. “Your presence today was invaluable. Thank you for coming.”
“I couldn’t have been anywhere else.” His gaze was on Cara when he spoke. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes.”
They left the station in silence, and when Sam slid into the driver’s seat after closing Cara’s door, she turned to him.
“Thank you for coming, Sam. I’m sorry I disrupted your morning.”
“As I told the sheriff, I couldn’t have been anywhere else.”
She checked her watch, not up to exploring the implications of that comment. She’d promised Sam they’d talk, but this wasn’t the time. A sudden weariness was sweeping over her, an aftermath of her restless night and the stress of the interview. “At least you’ll be able to salvage most of your appointments for today.”
“I canceled everything.”
Surprised, she turned to him. “Why?”
“I wanted to be available in case you needed m…anything. Given the circumstances, there was a strong possibility you could have had a panic attack. But you did great, Cara. You’re beating this thing. Today should give you a lot of confidence that you’re on the road to recovery.”
“I’m not sure I could have gotten through it if you hadn’t been there.”
Her soft comment warmed him. “I’m glad I could be there to support you.” As he turned into his driveway, he caught Cara trying to stifle a yawn. “Someone needs a nap.”
“I am tired. But it doesn’t seem right that I should go to bed when you’ve taken the whole day off to be with me.”
He set the brake and turned to her. “Trust me, Cara. I’m ecstatic that you’ll be sleeping peacefully instead of fighting the aftereffects of a panic attack.” He touched her cheek, letting his fingers linger for several seconds before he retracted his hand and lightened his tone. “Besides, you need the rest. You have another big weekend coming up. Marge tells me the dining room is sold out again.”
“Yes. This weekend and next. Are you coming again?”
“Every night.”
Stunned, she stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Where else could I get a better meal? You’ve spoiled me these past few weeks. I’m not sure I can go back to those frozen dinners. Or Gus’s.”
The compliment pleased her. But as she opened her mouth to respond, another yawn caught her unaware.
“It’s off to bed for you. We can’t have Oak Hill’s premier chef too tired too cook.”
Later, safely snuggled in her bed, Cara thought about one of Sam’s earlier remarks. When she’d expressed surprise that he’d changed his schedule to be with her, he’d almost responded by saying that he’d wanted to be available in case she needed him.
And more and more, Cara was becoming convinced that she did need Sam. Not just when she had panic attacks, not just to help her get through difficult situations like today, but for always. To hold her hand in the simple moments of life as well as the stressful ones, to sit with her on the porch swing after a busy day, or share a quiet dinner or an impromptu morning picnic, as they had when she’d first arrived in Oak Hill.
As sleep began to cloud her mind, the sermon Reverend Andrews had given that first Sunday she and Sam had attended services together replayed in her mind. He had pointed out that in a world filled with broken promises and betrayal, it can be difficult to follow the Lord’s commandment to love one another as He loved us. And he’d s
aid that love is about sharing and sacrifice, about unselfishness and forgiveness. Not once, but over and over again. He’d also said that in a good marriage, partners must persevere. With trust, and with faith, and with hope.
In the seconds before she fell into a deep sleep, Cara knew that she was being called to abide by the Lord’s directive, to free her heart from troubles and fears. And to follow His example to remain steadfast in love despite human imperfections and failings.
It was time, Cara knew, to listen with an open heart and mind to what her husband had to say. It was time to take a leap of faith and put her trust in the Lord—and in Sam.
As Sam dug into his lemon tart garnished with a generous dollop of whipped cream, the tension of the past few days caught up with him. Since their kiss, he’d been anxious to talk with Cara. In nine days she was scheduled to get on a plane and return to Philadelphia. But they’d had no chance to exchange more than a few words.
After losing a day at the office, he’d been playing catch-up with appointments. A rare spate of emergencies had kept him at the hospital in Rolla for long stretches, and he’d put in extra hours at the volunteer clinic on his day off when more patients than usual showed up.
Cara’s schedule had been hectic, too. After recovering from the emotional trauma of the interview on Tuesday with the Philly police, she’d thrown herself into preparations for her second weekend at the inn. And based on the two meals he’d had so far, her personal problems hadn’t had any negative impact on her usual stellar performance in the kitchen.
“Miss…” The older man at the next table flagged down his waitress. “Would you ask the chef to come out when she has a minute?”
“Of course, sir.”
Watching the exchange, Sam wondered if the couple had a complaint. He hoped not, after all Cara’s hard work. But they didn’t look unhappy, he decided. They were smiling at each other, and there was an almost girlish glow on the woman’s face.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Cara come through the kitchen door. She flashed him a quick smile as she passed, but she didn’t pause on her way to the table next to his.