One True Thing

by Marilyn Pappano

  That was a fact she couldn’t bear to face, not in the middle of a warm, relaxing, pleasant day. In the middle of the night, when she couldn’t sleep for the fear, the depression, the tears…then she would face it. But not today. Today was a time to enjoy, and she intended to do just that.

  How many ways could you spell Shauna?

  Jace sat in front of the computer, the search engine cursor blinking patiently, waiting for another attempt. He’d tried Shauna, Shawna, Shahna, Shanna, even Seana. The closest thing he got to a hit was on the actor Shaun Cassidy. He’d found a Cassidy who wrote romance novels, but her first name was nowhere close to Shauna.

  She’d lied again.

  His first impulse was to do whatever it took to find out why—call his cop buddies, run her tag number, check out each and every bit of information she’d given him. Put more simply, investigate her. It was easy enough to do, even for an ex-cop. Even without the access he’d had before quitting the job, he still had all the necessary resources.

  His second impulse was to blow her off. She wanted to live in fantasyland? Who cared? He sure as hell didn’t have to live there with her. He just wanted to spend a night or two there.

  Third time around, his instincts said wait and see. She had her reasons for lying, she’d said on the way into town that morning. In her mind, at least, they were good ones, even though he couldn’t automatically agree. More importantly, he couldn’t care. Reasons for lying, good or bad, were a clear signal that she was the wrong person for him to get involved with—even for sex.

  Or maybe except for sex.

  As he shut down the computer, a line from an old tune flashed through his head: We gotta get you a woman. Sad, but true. If he threw some clothes into a bag, he could be in Kansas City by 1:00 a.m., could be too exhausted by two to lift his head off the pillow, much less think about sex with any woman for at least a few hours. Hell, he could skip the road trip and get lucky in Buffalo Plains. Then maybe he could get Cassidy out of his system…though he seriously doubted anything less than several very long, very intense go-rounds in her bed would accomplish that.

  They’d left the park around five o’clock and made a fairly silent trip back to the lake—a tired kind of silence that was more comfortable than he’d wanted it to be. Amanda had been a talker, and so had Julie and Lisa. Cassidy didn’t find it necessary to fill every silence with chatter, no matter how inane. He hadn’t realized how much he liked that until they’d said goodbye at her door and he’d headed back across the bridge to his own door.

  After taking a bottled water from the refrigerator, he stepped out onto the deck. There was no moon and the stars seemed a million miles away. The only light came from his living-room windows, as well as Cassidy’s, and the only sounds were the usual ones—whippoorwills and bobwhites, tree frogs croaking and fish plopping, water lapping against the shore. He’d become so accustomed to the quiet that he wondered sometimes if he would ever be able to live in the city again. Usually he cut off that line of thought as soon as it occurred to him, but as Reese had pointed out not too long ago, his savings weren’t going to last forever.

  What could he do besides be a cop?

  The answer was as elusive as all those stars a million miles away.

  As he considered thinking about it, a man-made sound disturbed the stillness…or, to be accurate, a woman-made sound—a soft sigh that seemed too heavy with its own burdens to do anything but hover in the night air. He searched the shadows on the opposite side of the inlet and saw what he should have noticed the moment he stepped out of the door— Cassidy, sitting near the edge of the water, knees drawn up, blond head bowed. She looked as forlorn and blue as her sigh.

  He could pretend he hadn’t seen her, go back inside and watch TV or read. That would be the smart thing. So, of course, it didn’t surprise him that when he moved, it was toward the steps, not the door.

  She didn’t notice him until the footbridge creaked beneath his weight. Hastily, she straightened her shoulders and wiped one hand across her face. Drying tears? He didn’t want to know.

  He sat a few feet away and watched as a thin sheet of lightning crackled across the distant sky. He hadn’t heard a weather report this evening and wouldn’t have paid any attention if he had. Summer in Oklahoma was fairly predictable—warm temperatures or hot, humidity, rain, thunderstorms or drought, with the occasional tornado. He’d never actually seen a tornado himself, though he’d lived his entire life in Tornado Alley. He was smart enough to take cover when one threatened. He would stick around for a good old-fashioned thunderstorm, though.

  The moments passed slowly, one after another, before he finally turned his head to look at her. “You’re not really from Maryland, are you?”

  An expression of regret crossed the half of her face he could see, then her mouth tightened as she shook her head.

  “And your pen name isn’t Shauna Cassidy.”

  Another shake of her head.

  “Do you even have a pen name?”

  “I have several pseudonyms.”

  He wondered if there was a fine distinction between pen name and pseudonym. All he knew was they were both fake names, but then, he didn’t earn his living with words. He could be missing some subtle nuance there.

  “And you’re not going to tell anyone what they are.”

  She shook her head once again.

  “Why not?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  Her tone was so casual, her question so incredible. Why did the truth matter? No one had ever put such a question to him before. It mattered because it was the truth. There might be additional reasons, but none were needed. Truth mattered, period.

  “When I leave here,” she went on, not waiting for an answer he couldn’t adequately explain to someone who didn’t already grasp it, “you people are never going to see me again. After a few weeks, you’re never even going to think of me again. What will where I’m from or where I live or what name I use matter then? What difference will any of it make?”

  “You really believe that? That truth and honesty and trustworthiness don’t matter?”

  “In a perfect world, sure. But my world’s not perfect.” She was using that meaningless tone again, accompanied this time by a shrug.

  “So you just lie about anything, everything, without reason.”

  “I told you, I have my reasons.”

  “What? An aversion to the truth? Lying’s more fun? It lets you change the things you don’t like in your life? It keeps people at arm’s length?”

  She stretched out her arm and her hand rested against his shoulder. There wasn’t enough room between them for her to straighten her elbow. “Some people,” she replied flippantly.

  He scowled hard at her. “That’s not funny.”

  Abruptly her voice turned cold. “So go home. I didn’t invite you over here. I have never once encouraged you to even speak to me. You’re the one who keeps coming around, who’s invited me to lunch and asked me to go places. If my dishonesty bothers you so much, stay away. I promise, I won’t come looking for you if you do.”

  Was it that simple for her? He would live on his side of the inlet and she would live on hers, each pretending the other didn’t exist? She wouldn’t think about him, wonder what he was doing, miss him?

  Probably not.

  While he would probably think of nothing but her.

  He looked at her, and she turned so he could see her entire face. Her maybe-brown eyes—with her track record, that was probably a lie, too—were steady and cool, her mouth relaxed, her face expressionless. If he got up and walked away without another word, she wouldn’t care.

  At least, that was what she wanted him to believe. He was trying, but the nagging tingle between his shoulder blades made it tough.

  He searched her face for something, and found it in the convulsive tightening of a muscle in her jaw, the stiff way she swallowed, the unsteady movement of her lips. “Tell me one true thing,” he demanded. Just one.
>
  She looked as if she wanted to refuse, but after a moment she smiled thinly. “All right. I’m a habitual liar. You can’t believe a word I say.”

  That was two true things, and probably the only things she possibly could have said that he would have believed.

  For now, it was enough.

  Chapter 7

  Where Heartbreak was just a speck on the map, Buffalo Plains was an honest-to-God dot. Not much of one, but still a dot. Cassidy parked across the street from the courthouse, shut off the engine and sat there a moment. What was she doing here? Dallying around town didn’t make her list of Smart Things to Do. She didn’t need to do any shopping, didn’t need to be spending any money indiscriminately, and she surely didn’t need to see anyone who might make the mistake of being friendly to her.

  She hadn’t had to worry about that last part in the past few days. After her one true thing, Jace had gone home without a word and he’d ignored her since. Stay away, she’d told him. I won’t come looking for you if you do. And she hadn’t. Even though she’d spent more time watching his cabin than reading, trying to write or playing Free Cell combined. Even though she’d been sorely tempted to walk across the foot bridge and offer him a compromise—Pay attention to me, and I won’t lie to you. She wouldn’t tell the truth and nothing but the truth, but she would stop lying.

  Somehow she didn’t think he would see that as any great offer on her part.

  He’d stayed gone all day Sunday, had had company she didn’t recognize Monday and had gone out Tuesday evening, wearing khaki trousers and an olive drab shirt. The light wind had carried the tune he was whistling across the inlet, along with the earthy scent of his cologne. Going out on a date, she’d suspected, and the thought had depressed her more than she’d expected.

  It wasn’t that she was jealous, she insisted as the temperature climbed in the car. Well, of course, she was, but not of him. Of the date. Ten years had passed since she’d been out on a date, twelve years since she’d been out with anyone besides Phil. She missed the whole ritual—the anticipation, the dressing up, the conversation, the dining, the dancing, the parties, the hand-holding, the kissing, the possibilities.

  She missed the possibilities. Her life was so empty of them. She couldn’t go out on a date. Couldn’t spend the night with a handsome man. Couldn’t make friends. Couldn’t even dream about falling in love, getting married, having children. It hurt too much.

  A bead of sweat trickled down her face, jarring her out of her thoughts. She pulled the keys from the ignition and climbed out, finding it not much cooler outside.

  Antique shops, the kind that carried “old stuff” rather than genuine antiques, lined the block in front of her. She decided to start at one end and work her way to the other. As she reached for the door to the first shop, it swung open and the man coming out stopped abruptly.

  “Cassidy.”

  She looked at him, blinked, then looked again. She hadn’t met him before, she was sure of that, but she was equally sure who he was. His was Jace’s face, with twenty-five or thirty years added and the Osage blood taken away. It was disconcerting to see Jace’s features in a white man’s face. “M-Mr. Barnett.”

  He stepped back so she could enter, then let the door swing shut again. “Oh, call me Ray. Everybody does—except Jace, of course. Rozena and I wanted to get an introduction to you Saturday at the barbecue, but her father took sick and we had to leave early. Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. The food was incredible. She should bottle that sauce and sell it.”

  “I’ll tell her you said so. She prides herself on her cooking. Like you can’t tell that just looking at me.” With a laugh, he patted his rounded belly. “Did Jace come into town with you?”

  “No. I’m alone.” She’d peered through the trees as she’d driven along the lane past his cabin, but the growth had been too thick to see the cabin, much less his truck parked toward the back. If he was there, he’d stayed inside. Just because? Or avoiding her?

  “Rozena wants to have you two over for dinner sometime. I’ll tell her to call him, and you tell him to listen to his messages, would you? He seems to think that cell phone is for his convenience and no one else’s.” He gave another friendly laugh. “I understand you’re from…Georgia, is it?”

  “California.”

  “Close enough,” he said with a wink. “What with all the smog and people and earthquakes out there, you must think you’ve found heaven here.”

  She resisted the urge to point out that smog wasn’t confined to California—she’d heard a few ozone-alert warnings on the Tulsa radio station she listened to, urging people not to drive, barbecue or even mow their lawns. As for people, all cities had them—it was part of the definition of the word—and she’d never experienced an earthquake, though places other than California had.

  “You live in a nice place,” she agreed.

  “Perfect place for settling down and raising up kids to be spoiled rotten by their granddaddy,” he said with another wink. “Guess I’d better get going, or the boss’ll shorten my leash next time. Rozena’ll call about dinner. Nice to finally meet you.”

  She watched out the plate-glass window as he crossed the street, strode past the courthouse and disappeared from sight, then turned her attention to the store. It was one large room, crammed with merchandise, and could use a few hundred watts’ more lighting. It smelled of old things—wood, fabric, paper—and, over all that, a clean crisp citrus scent. Music came from a small stereo somewhere in the back, and a lovely, clear voice sang along and, judging from the accompanying sounds, danced along, too.

  The owner of the voice did a slide-shuffle step around the distant corner of the main aisle. She was in her teens, Cassidy guessed, though she wouldn’t even try to narrow it beyond that. Her brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, a demure contrast to the multiple earrings that glinted in each lobe, and her white T-shirt and short denim overalls emphasized her long legs and golden-tanned skin. She was too cute for words, even with the hiking boots and the stud in her nose.

  “Hi, I’m Lexy,” she called, wiggling the feather duster she held in a wave. “Feel free to look around. If you need anything, yell.” She glanced in the direction the music was coming from, then grinned slyly. “Loudly.”

  “I will,” Cassidy replied as she turned into a small alcove filled with pressed glass. She’d heard the name once before—at Olivia Harris’s house. So Hallie Marshall, who didn’t look a day older than Cassidy herself, was mother to this womanly creature as well as the tiny girl she’d carried at the barbecue Saturday. Some people had all the luck.

  She was examining a display of wooden bowls similar to the one that had caught her attention at the festival when Lexy joined her. “Aren’t they pretty? The guy who makes ’em used to be the doctor here in town—Doc Walker—but he retired and turned his practice over to Callie—she’s a midwife—well, actually, she’s a nurse pract—a practicing nurse or something like that.”

  “Nurse practitioner,” Cassidy supplied.

  “Yeah. She delivered my baby sister, Brynn. She delivered everyone’s babies until Doc Walker’s grandson came to town, but a lot of women still want her instead of him. Anyway, Doc Walker took up wood turning to pass the time, and he makes these bowls. Isn’t this one great?”

  She handed Cassidy a delicately rounded bowl, the wood rich and dark except where a V of pale wood sliced through. “It grew like that, in two different colors. Isn’t it cool? And they’re so smooth and pretty.”

  Amazingly so, Cassidy agreed. Maybe thirty-five dollars wasn’t so pricey for something whose purpose was to look pretty when she could also use it as her own version of a worry stone. A few minutes rubbing the unblemished surface might be as calming as a half hour of yoga.

  Before she left Oklahoma for good, she promised herself as she returned the bowl to the shelf. She deserved a souvenir of at least one of the three dozen places she’d lived—something besides regrets.<
br />
  “You’re Mom and Aunt Neely’s friend, aren’t you?” Lexy asked.

  Not really. But she would like to be. Just as she would like to have dinner with Jace and his parents, and would like to cuddle Liza Beth Rafferty the next time she was in the café. She would like to stay in the cabin at the lake as long as she wanted, to pretend that life was normal and that the nightmares in her past wouldn’t destroy her future.

  “Yes,” she lied, and felt a twinge of guilt for it.

  “Mom says you’re a writer. I bet people tell you all the time how they’re gonna write a book someday.” Lexy gave her a sidelong look. “I really am…someday. I’ve kept a journal since I was ten, and I write some poetry and short stories.” Suddenly she gave a self-conscious laugh. “Don’t worry, though—I’m not gonna ask you if you’ll read my stuff and tell me whether it’s any good. I don’t let anyone read it yet. I figure the editor who buys it will be the first one other than me to see it. It’s really just for me anyway.”

  “I think that might be the key,” Cassidy said. “They say writers write because they can’t not do it. It’s part of who they are.” Not that she had any great experience with writing anything other than checks, but the story she was working at putting into words was for her, no one else. Maybe someday someone else would read it, but that wasn’t the important part. The telling was.

  “Yeah,” Lexy agreed. “Sometimes my friends ask me why I do it, and I’m, like, I don’t know why. I just do. So…what do you think of your neighbor, Jace? He’s awfully cute for an old guy, isn’t he?”

  Old? “Yeah, just like you’re awfully cute for a baby.”

  “I’m not a baby.” Lexy drew herself up to her full height and imperiously looked down her nose. “I’ll be sixteen before too long.” Then she let her shoulders slump a bit. “And six feet tall if I don’t stop growing. I’m five-eleven now…well, five-eleven and a quarter, but we don’t mention that. I’m practically taller than anyone else in school.”