Deadline

by Sandra Brown

  He didn’t worry about himself. He couldn’t possibly get any wetter than he already was. They made a mad dash for the car. The boys were shrieking with laughter and excitement by the time they clambered into the backseat.

  “Suddenly, they’re not as cranky and afraid as before,” she remarked when Dawson slid behind the wheel.

  “It’s an adventure now.”

  “I told them earlier we were having an adventure. They didn’t buy it.”

  “Sitting in the dark is a different kind of adventure from running through the rain.”

  “True. But the real difference is you.”

  The statement gave him pause, but now wasn’t the time to think about it. He started the car; the tires spun before gaining traction. As they pulled away, she remarked on Bernie’s dark house.

  “Do you mind if we stop and check on him?”

  “Not at all. In fact, he should come with us.”

  He drove the short distance, got out of the car, and ran up to Bernie’s back door, finding a sliver of shelter beneath the eaves. He knocked three times before Bernie appeared wearing a baggy pair of undershorts and a white T-shirt, with slippers and black socks on his feet. He was rubbing his left eye. His white hair was sticking out at odd angles.

  Since they’d only been introduced once, the older man seemed astonished to see him, but he remembered his name. “Mr. Scott?”

  “Sorry if I got you out of bed.”

  “I was reading. Just like Boy Scout camp.” He held up the flashlight in his hand. “What are you doing out in this?”

  “Amelia’s with me. She and the boys are staying at my house for the rest of the night.” He gestured toward the car.

  Bernie regarded him with surprise, then leaned around him and peered at the car. He waved at it, although the passengers were blurs behind the foggy, rain-streaked windows. “Stef, too?”

  “She’s stuck in town.”

  “Oh.”

  Before the old man drew the wrong conclusion, Dawson explained. “The boys were afraid. The house I’m renting has a generator. Lights.”

  “Ah, of course.”

  “We think you should spend the night there, too.”

  “No, no, I’m fine here.”

  “You’d be more comfortable.”

  “I’m snug as a bug, and I’ve got plenty of backup batteries.”

  A bolt of lightning cracked nearby. Dawson instinctively ducked. When he recovered, he noticed Bernie regarding him curiously. Embarrassed by his conditioned reaction to the boom, he said, “That one was close.”

  “You’d better get Amelia and the kids tucked inside.”

  “I can’t talk you into joining the party? There are more than enough bedrooms, and it could be a long night.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate the invitation, but I’m fine.”

  “At least agree to come over for breakfast.”

  Bernie smiled. “If you insist.”

  Dawson bade him good night and plunged back into the torrent. He couldn’t help but sling rain onto Amelia as he got into the car, but she seemed not to notice.

  “Is he all right?”

  “I think I woke him up. He seemed to be okay. He didn’t want to relocate.”

  “You explained why we were doing this?”

  He placed his hand over his heart. “I made a point of preserving your reputation.”

  “Thank you for checking on him.”

  “No problem.” The road was a morass, but they made it to the back door of his house without mishap. “Hold on, boys, let me help you up the steps. They could be slick.”

  He got out and opened the back door on the driver’s side. Taking a boy by each hand, he walked them quickly but cautiously up the three wooden steps, unlocked the back door, then ushered them inside. When he flipped the switch, the overhead light came on. He’d been keeping his fingers crossed that the generator did, in fact, take over during a power loss.

  “Wow!” Hunter exclaimed. “Look at that ship model.” It was displayed on the long table that divided the kitchen from the living area.

  “First, take off your shoes and leave them here by the back door so you don’t track up the floor. Then you can go look at the ship. But don’t touch. It doesn’t belong to me.”

  He went back out, intending to assist Amelia, but she’d already alighted. Protecting the armload of clothes she was carrying, she was picking her way around the deepest puddles. He went down the steps and took her elbow. “I was coming back for you. You should have waited.”

  “I’m okay.”

  As soon as she’d cleared the threshold of the back door, she pulled her arm free of his grasp. “I haven’t been in this house since the owners renovated it. It’s—”

  He stepped directly in front of her, blocking her view. “Are you going to flinch every time I come near you?”

  “I didn’t flinch.”

  “Hell you didn’t.”

  Her chin went up a fraction, but the trace of defiance was short-lived, and she dropped her gaze to somewhere in the vicinity of the second button of his shirt. “You’re smart enough to understand how awkward this is for me.”

  “Because of the near kiss.”

  He didn’t phrase it as a question, and she offered no reply, but only continued to stare straight ahead until the silence between them became strained. Finally she looked into his face again.

  “Your virtue is safe with me,” he said. “Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay?” he repeated.

  Even though she nodded a second time, he felt that she wasn’t entirely convinced. He certainly wasn’t.

  * * *

  Hunter and Grant missed the awkward exchange because, as with everything having to do with Dawson, they were fascinated by “his” house.

  It was tastefully furnished and had amenities to recommend it, but it lacked the warmth and personality of hers, which had been purchased strictly for her family’s use and was never rented out. Over the years it had accumulated personal keepsakes, family photographs, the marks and scars of living that made a house a home.

  However, her sons didn’t seem to miss the hominess. They were enthralled, particularly by the matching set of bunk beds in the upstairs bedroom to which Dawson led them. “Each of you can have a top bunk.”

  “Be careful on those ladders,” Amelia cautioned as they started up the rungs.

  Grant said, “I wish this was our room all the time.”

  Hunter declared that he wished they could live there forever.

  Amelia smiled. “Well, before you get the bedcovers wet, come back down and change.”

  They climbed down and went to inspect the adjoining bathroom. “There’s a room right across the hall for you,” Dawson said.

  “Thanks, but I’ll sleep on one of the lower bunks.”

  He shot the beds a dubious glance. “You sure? The other room—”

  “No sense in messing up two.”

  Although he looked like he wanted to argue further, he didn’t. “Fine. I’m going to get dry. Make yourself comfortable.”

  A half hour later and now much more comfortable, she descended the open staircase which was dimly illuminated by night-lights that had been placed on every third tread. She’d towel-dried her hair and changed into the clothes she’d brought with her. In her haste, and in the dark of her utility room, she’d grabbed the first articles her hands had landed on, which turned out to be a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and a fleece hoodie. They were mismatched, but she didn’t see what possible difference it made.

  When she reached the bottom step, Dawson asked, “Everything all right?”

  Her eyes searched the vast great room and spotted him in the semidarkness, sprawled in an easy chair. The lamp at his elbow cast only a faint glow.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” he said. “This is the only socket working in this room, and the overhead light is out.”

  The overhead light in the kitchen had been turned off. Had it bee
n left on, it would have shed light into the living area. She chose not to remark on that. Nor did she comment on the disappearance of the liquor and pill bottles that had been conspicuously on the kitchen island when they arrived.

  “There wasn’t a glass in the bathroom,” she said. “In case the boys wake up in the night and want a drink of water, I came down to get one.”

  “Come sit. Before hiding the incriminating evidence of my vices, I poured you a whiskey.”

  His right hand was dangling over the arm of the chair. In it, he loosely held a tumbler. Another one sat on the end table beneath the lamp. The amber contents reflected the light.

  When she hesitated, he said, “Bourbon is all I have. Is that okay?”

  “My father was a southern gentleman. What do you think?”

  He smiled. “I think he probably spiked your baby bottle with it.” He tilted his head toward the chair next to his. “Come on. You looked pretty wound up when I got to your house. This will relax you and help you sleep.”

  Said the spider to the fly, she thought.

  But she joined him anyway. The chair was soft, cushy, and enveloping. Pulling her feet up, she tucked them against her hip.

  Noticing her striped socks, he said, “Fetching.”

  “I’m afraid the whole outfit leaves much to be desired.”

  He looked her over and seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but changed his mind. Instead, he picked up the glass of whiskey on the table and extended it to her. “Drink up.”

  She took a sip and sighed as the liquor spread a pleasant warmth through her middle. Letting her head fall back against the cushion, she sighed, “Lord, what a day.”

  “Mine didn’t have many highlights, either.”

  “What happened?”

  “Work-related hassle.” He made an offhanded gesture and took a sip of his drink.

  “You went to the village?”

  “I didn’t want to be caught in short supply.”

  “Of batteries?”

  “Of booze.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “I was almost out.”

  “Thanks for sharing.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He smelled of soap. His hair was dry, brushed back away from his face, making the sun-lightened strands distinguishable from the darker ones beneath. He’d put on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, which, like the one from the beach, was practically threadbare. But at least this one had sleeves that partially covered the bite-worthy biceps. The lamplight cast the features of his face into harsh relief, emphasizing the sharp angles, the spikiness of his eyelashes. It also glinted off the tawny hair on his legs.

  Her teeth clinked against her glass when she took a hasty sip.

  He said, “May I ask you a question? A harmless one.”

  “Chocolate or vanilla? It’s a tie. My most favorite is peach.”

  He grinned. “Not quite that harmless.”

  She weighed the pros and cons of letting him pry further into her life, and specifically into her life with Jeremy, and finally consented to at least hear the question. “Then I’ll decide if I want to answer it or not.”

  He waited a second or two, then asked if she had a picture of Jeremy’s parents.

  “His parents? No.”

  “If you did, would you show it to me?”

  “The point is moot, I don’t have one.”

  “Did you ever see one?”

  “No, because, remember, everything was destroyed in the house fire.”

  “Did he ever take you to Ohio to tour his hometown, show you the site of the home that burned, visit the cemetery where his parents were buried?”

  “They were cremated. He didn’t keep their remains. He wasn’t sentimental or nostalgic. He told me that, when he left Ohio, he left for good and never had a desire to return, not even to high-school class reunions.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “The memories were too sad. He dealt with them by severing any and all ties.”

  “He didn’t have one single shred of something that linked him to his parents? Nothing to indicate what they and his childhood had been like?”

  “Why are you fixated on this?”

  “I’m interested.”

  “But why? It’s ancient history. And what does his childhood have to do with anything else?”

  “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. His parents could have impacted him in ways that even you’re unaware of.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Of course they did.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because parents do.”

  “Did yours?”

  “Yes.” He shot the rest of his whiskey and set the tumbler on the table. “Just like you’ll influence Hunter and Grant, like your dad influenced you. From something as simple as what goes into a good meat loaf to the not-so-simple. Religion. Culture. How you should vote. Every damn thing you think or believe, your reactions, your behavior, were partially shaped by who and what your parents were.”

  “Genetics versus environment isn’t a new controversy.”

  “I don’t think it’s one versus the other. I think it’s a blend.”

  “Why are you so hung up on Jeremy’s blend?”

  “Because when I write about somebody, I want to know these things.”

  He had admitted to carefully observing individuals in an effort to learn what made them tick. Gauging by the stories she’d read online, he did more than that when he wrote about a person. He provided his readers a cross-section of their mind and soul. Which was disconcerting.

  “Are you going to write about me?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “If you do, will you dissect me and hang me out there for all to see?”

  “In order to do that, I would need to know things about you.”

  “You already do.”

  “Not enough. Not nearly.”

  “What else could you possibly wish to know?”

  He stared into her eyes for a ponderous moment, and that should have warned her of what was coming. It didn’t. She was totally unprepared.

  “I want to know about your father’s suicide.”

  Chapter 11

  For several seconds she was too stunned to move, then she bolted from her chair and marched across the room. He caught her just as she stepped onto the bottom stair. Hooking her upper arm with his hand, he brought her around to face him.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Calm down.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Keep your voice down. You’ll wake up the boys.”

  “You bet I’ll wake up the boys.” She jerked her arm free. “I’m taking my sons and getting far away from you, and I don’t care if we have to wade to Savannah tonight!”

  She shoved his chest and pushed herself out of his grip, then turned and started up the stairs. But on the third one, her socks caused her to slip. She fell forward, catching herself on the step above her, but knocking one knee hard against the edge of the tread. She clasped her knee and sat down on the step, rocking in pain.

  “Dammit! Are you okay?”

  He sat down on the step beneath her, bringing his face level with hers. His concern looked genuine, which only made her more furious. She placed her elbows on her knees and lowered her face to her hands. “Get away from me.”

  He didn’t, of course. He just sat there, silent and unmoving, for as long as she did. Finally, when she had composed herself, she lowered her hands and wiped her tear-dampened palms on the legs of her pajamas. Looking anywhere except at him, she noticed the overturned tumbler in front of the chair where she’d been sitting.

  “I dropped my glass. The bourbon spilled.”

  “Who gives a fuck?”

  The vulgarity was unexpected, and she realized immediately that he’d used it intentionally to shock her out of her anger. It worked. She laughed, or choked out a laugh.

  He motioned toward her knee. “I’ll be happy to kiss it and make it w
ell.”

  His genial smile completely defused her anger. She gave another involuntary laugh, then shook her head with chagrin. “Ah, Dawson.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want to like you.”

  “Then we’re even. I didn’t want to like you, either.” The admission surprised her, and it must have shown. Leaning back, he rested his elbows on the step on which she sat and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I resented this story being thrust on me.”

  “Was it thrust?”

  “Yes. In the sense that I couldn’t say no.”

  “Why?”

  He closed one eye in a grimace. “That’s complicated.” He didn’t divulge why.

  Absently she rubbed her sore knee. “From a layman’s standpoint, Jeremy’s story has a lot of intriguing elements. Why weren’t you interested?”

  He stared at a spot in the distance for a long time, and when he answered, it was in a soft voice. “I saw guys blown to bits. Saw men risking their lives to save a wounded buddy whose odds of making it were nonexistent. Watched men and women putting themselves in harm’s way to save a stranger. A hostile, even.

  “Having witnessed incredible acts of bravery, I was disgusted by a decorated Marine who came home after surviving all that and then let his life—a damn good life, it seemed to me—go into the sewer. I didn’t know Jeremy Wesson, but I didn’t like him. Still don’t.” He looked at her then. “But I can relate to him. And that’s what really disgusts me.”

  “The post-traumatic stress?”

  He raised his shoulders in a small shrug.

  Since that was the first time he had acknowledged that he suffered it to any degree, suspicion crept in, and she angled away from him. “Is this an I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours?”

  “Your what and my what?”

  “Vulnerability. You’ve revealed yours. Now you expect me to reveal mine?”

  “Your vulnerability being your father.” When she didn’t answer, he asked, “Do you really think I’m that manipulative?”

  “If not, why did you refer to his death as a suicide? The coroner ruled it an unintentional overdose of medication.”