One True Thing

by Marilyn Pappano

  “There are lots of men who are taller than that.”

  “Yeah, like Mitch. He’s a deputy who works for my dad and Uncle Reese. He is so cute, and he’s a lot closer to my age…though not close enough to matter until I’m, like, twenty or older. With my dad, probably not even then. Anyway, speaking of cops…Jace is checkin’ out your car.” Lexy’s voice turned singsong on the last words, accompanied by an ear-to-ear grin.

  Cassidy turned to look out the window and saw Jace standing behind her car. If one mistook his dark skin for a tan, he looked like the quintessential beach bum in baggy shorts, a T-shirt and dark glasses that reflected everything back in iridescent shades. Of course, the nearest beach was the Texas Gulf coast and—

  Abruptly she turned back to Lexy. “What did you say?”

  “He’s checkin’ out your car. Probably trying to figure out where to find you—”

  “Before that.” When the girl frowned in an effort to remember, Cassidy gave her an assist. “‘Speaking of cops…’”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Jace isn’t a cop.”

  “Sure, he is. Well, he was for, like, forever. In Kansas City. But he quit his job last winter and came home. Uncle Reese and Aunt Neely have been kinda worried about him, ’cause he’s just vegetating and not doing much of anything, and Uncle Reese is always offering him a job at the sheriff’s office, but Jace says he’s never gonna be a cop again. Uncle Reese says that’s not possible. He says being a cop is like you describe being a writer. It’s not what you do, it’s who you are, and Jace is a cop.”

  Cassidy glanced outside again. Jace had moved to the sidewalk and was sitting on the hood of the car. Absently she wondered if the hot metal didn’t burn through the cotton of his shorts, then gave herself a mental shake.

  So he had been a cop—and still was, according to his cousin, even if he’d quit the job. At least that explained all the questions and the suspicion. Heavens, if she’d known she was lying to a former cop, she would have done it with a little more finesse…not. Years of lying daily hadn’t made her much better at it than when she’d started.

  Was this good news or bad? Or was it nothing at all? A cop had that protect-and-serve bit down pat, so if trouble tracked her down, he could come in handy. But there was also that curiosity. He was accustomed to getting answers to his questions one way or the other—to sorting through lies until he uncovered the truth. Keeping her secrets could be tough unless she kept her distance.

  But she really didn’t want to keep her distance. Not this one time. She’d been so good, so careful, for so long. Couldn’t she catch a break just once?

  “You may as well go see what he wants,” Lexy suggested. “As if that’s such a hardship, him being so cute and all.”

  “Maybe if I keep shopping, he’ll go away.” And maybe he would go straight to the sheriff’s office in the courthouse and ask cousin Reese to run her tag number. What would he think when it came back to Stacy Beauchamp? Or would it be Linda Valdez? She would have to check the registration to be sure.

  Lexy laughed at her comment as if she’d told a great joke. “Ain’t gonna happen. He’s a Barnett, and they’re waaay more stubborn than that.”

  He looked awfully comfortable sitting on her car, hands on the hood, feet propped on the bumper. Lexy was probably right. After all, she was related to one Barnett by marriage.

  “I guess I’ll go see what he wants,” Cassidy suggested with a smile she didn’t feel. When she faced Lexy again, the smile became sincere. “I enjoyed talking to you, Lexy.”

  “I’ll see you around.”

  Not likely… “Yeah.” As she started toward the door she gave the girl a wave, then took a fortifying breath and stepped out into the heat. She ignored the pleasure rising inside her at the mere sight of Jace waiting for her, tempered only by her new knowledge about him. A cop. Just her luck…and she didn’t have a clue whether it was good or bad luck.

  She stopped a few feet away and waited for him to speak. The shades he wore were an expensive brand, chosen as much for the camouflage they provided as for the protection from the sun, she suspected. His tennis shoes, worn without socks, were expensive, too, though they showed a tremendous amount of wear. If she checked the tag on his shorts, would she find they were pricey, too? Pricier than a part-time cowboy could afford?

  “Indulging in another shopping spree, huh?” he asked in that easy-going, heartland cowboy drawl of his, tinged with a bit of sarcasm.

  She didn’t respond to the remark. Instead she put her own dark glasses on, then slid her hands into her shorts’ pockets and studied him. “Fancy meeting you here, Officer Barnett…or should that be Detective?”

  It was hard to tell, but she thought a crimson stain crept into his cheeks. He unfolded into a standing position, slid his hands into his own shorts’ pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Six months ago it would have been detective. Today it’s not.”

  Six months ago. Back in the winter, when he would have been happy not having anyone’s attention. When he’d stopped cutting his hair. When he’d isolated himself from family and friends. When something had happened that he’d needed to recover from.

  She could imagine a million things that could have gone wrong for a cop and driven him away from his job. She wanted to know about the one thing that had gone wrong for this cop, but damned if she could ask. They’d made a deal, he would no doubt remind her. Her truths for his.

  “You have a problem with that?”

  Cassidy gazed at the war memorial in the grass across the street. She hadn’t decided the answer to that yet. She did know, no matter how irrational it seemed, that she felt…annoyed that he’d not only failed to mention a long career as a cop, but had, in fact, gone to some effort to hide it.

  And that, she thought with a wry smile, was a prime example of the pot calling the kettle black.

  Finally she looked at him again. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out myself. Why are you in town?”

  His response was a shrug and a question of his own. “Why are you?”

  “I’ve been good, and I needed a break.” She had spent a lot of time at the computer since Saturday evening, increasing her manuscript file to an impressive size. It was tough, writing about all the things she’d lost—the family, the husband and, worst of all, the dreams. She didn’t dream anymore. Didn’t hope.

  At the same time, the writing was cathartic. For so many years, her life—her entire self—had been a lie. Being able to speak openly, honestly, even if only on a computer, felt freeing.

  “So you’re taking the rest of the day off?”

  She nodded. Her comment about needing a break had been true, too. There was such a thing, she’d discovered, as too much catharsis.

  “Let’s get some lunch. I know this place on 51st that’s got great burgers.”

  “On my first day here, I drove all over town, and I know for a fact that Buffalo Plains doesn’t have fifty-one streets.”

  “In Tulsa. It’s not far.”

  Not far was a reasonable distance to go for a great burger…unless the drive time was filled with more unanswerable questions. He was being pleasant enough at the moment, but who knew how long that would last? One badly told lie from her, or one suspicion that she was being less than honest, and the day could turn very unpleasant indeed.

  On the other hand, she was expert at dealing with the unpleasant. Maybe the trip would surprise her. Maybe she would tell only the truth, or he would ignore her lies.

  “Okay.” Hearing her own agreement brought both a sense of anticipation and a clutch of apprehension. Good choice or bad?

  Only time would tell.

  The restaurant Jace took Cassidy to didn’t look the sort of place a person would associate with great, greasy burgers. The location was too pricey—an elegant little shopping center—and the decor too upscale, with cloths on the tables and linen napkins. But the hamburgers were thick and fried with onions, the buns toasted with real butter, the fr
ies crispy and dotted with salt.

  They had finished their burgers and were picking at the last of the fries on the plate between them. They’d talked about nothing important—because she lied about the important stuff, he reminded himself. Of course, she lied about the unimportant stuff, too.

  For today, at least, he wasn’t going to care.

  “I haven’t seen you lately,” he remarked as she took the last French fry, as if the fact were of no consequence. As if he hadn’t missed seeing her, and talking to her, and thinking about having sex with her. Not that he’d stopped doing that last. Out of sight definitely did not mean out of mind.

  She delicately wiped her fingers on her napkin. “I told you if you stayed away, I wouldn’t come looking for you.” Unexpectedly she smiled. “You wouldn’t want me to make a liar of myself, would you?”

  Though his jaw tightened, he managed a similar smile. “God forbid…especially with you being such an honest person and all.”

  A bleak look stole into her eyes, then in an instant was gone. It made him want to speak, though he couldn’t think of a thing to say. Instead, he turned his attention to the other customers in the dining room.

  The shopping center might be upscale, but the hamburger lovers weren’t. The uniformed ones were easy to peg—phone repair guys, a delivery service driver, three mechanics from a garage down the street. There were a half dozen workers from a street maintenance crew, still wearing their reflective orange vests, a couple of men in suits and a group of women from a nearby doctor’s office.

  The only other couple sat a few tables away—a man in a cream-colored suit with a tie that was all wrong and a woman who looked the epitome of the rising young businessman’s wife. The man seemed displeased with the way his day was going and the woman appeared anxious over his displeasure.

  They made Jace and Cassidy look damn near lovey-dovey in comparison.

  He was about to turn his attention back to Cassidy when a clatter sounded at the other couple’s table. The woman’s glass lay on its side, its contents splattered everywhere, and the man was on his feet, wiping at his trousers and swearing loudly. His wife—they wore matching bands, Jace could see now—looked small in her seat, her head ducked, her shoulders rounded.

  Jace glanced at the bill, tossed down enough money to cover it and a tip, then started to rise. “You ready to go?”

  Cassidy was watching the man, whose voice was louder now. He’d moved from generic curses to ones aimed specifically at his wife. He was standing so close to her that she had nowhere to look but at him, and she did it tearfully, her face as red as the tablecloth, apparently aware that everyone in the restaurant was staring at them.

  “Cassidy.” Jace gestured toward the door. He’d been involved in enough domestic disputes to know this one wasn’t going to blow over any time soon, and he wanted to be gone before it escalated. “Let’s go. Since it’s not too—”

  Too late. Furious now, the man had found an additional target—the teenage busboy who’d come to clean up the spill. The kid was leaning against the wall, apparently stunned after getting shoved there by the suit, and the dishes lay broken on the floor at his feet. The woman was starting to cry, silent tears that slid down her cheeks.

  The girl at the cash register was on the phone, no doubt with the police. Everyone else in the place watched, edgy and uncomfortable, torn between stepping in and minding their own business. Doing what was right versus doing what was easy. He understood their indecision. Hell, he shared it. He didn’t want to intervene, either. He wouldn’t. It wasn’t his job anymore, and it damn sure wasn’t his responsibility.

  Though he knew two people—the ones who had raised him—who would insist otherwise. Doing the right thing had nothing do with his job, they would say, and everything to do with who he was.

  And who he was was the sort of guy who didn’t get involved in other people’s problems. The sort of man who would stand up—he did so slowly—and walk out the door.

  The woman spoke, her voice audible for the first time. “Dennis, please…” She put out a trembling hand. “Please…p-people are—are staring. L-let’s discuss th—this—”

  He knocked her hand away. “Do you think I give a damn whether people are staring? I’ll give them something to stare at, you stupid bitch!”

  Reluctantly, Jace glanced at Cassidy, who was looking back at him. He couldn’t read anything in her expression, but he identified expectancy in her gaze. She wanted him to do something—would be disappointed if he didn’t. That shouldn’t matter one bit to him, but damned if it didn’t.

  The guy drew his right hand back as if to strike his wife, and she shrank away as if she’d received many such blows. It took Jace two strides to reach him, to catch hold of his wrist and twist it behind his back. The angle was sharp enough to make the man yelp, to force him over the table in an effort to ease the pressure.

  “Get your hands off me, you bast—” Twisting around, the guy caught his first look at Jace—a half foot taller, twenty pounds lighter and nowhere near as easy to intimidate as his wife. The curse died unfinished, and so did the struggles. “Hey, man, you’re hurting my arm. Everything’s cool now. Let go, okay? I’m cool.”

  Off to their left, the door opened and a police officer came inside. A second was following a few yards behind.

  Jace released the man with a shove that sent him sprawling across the table. Before the guy could regain his feet, the first officer was handcuffing him. With nothing more than a glance at Cassidy, Jace walked out of the restaurant. He was sitting in the SUV, engine running and AC cooling, when she finally joined him.

  He had thought he would give her the nickel tour of Tulsa after lunch. Instead, he turned onto 51st and headed for the nearest access to the bypass. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she, until they reached the Arkansas River bridge.

  “Is that why you quit being a cop? You got tired of being the good guy?”

  Not the good guy, he wanted to say. The sucker, the sap, the fool. But he didn’t bother as he changed lanes to take 75 North. Instead, he challenged her first question. “What makes you think I quit? Maybe I was fired.”

  “Maybe you were,” she agreed quietly. “But if you were fired for cause, would Reese be so eager to have you working for him?”

  “When the salary is low and the benefits substandard, you can’t be too picky about who you hire.”

  She let another few miles pass before speaking again. “What happened?”

  They crossed the Arkansas River once more, then merged onto the Keystone Expressway. He flexed his fingers around the steering wheel, then affected a careless tone. “I woke up one morning and decided I was sick to death of helping people. It doesn’t ever last. The people you put in jail get out again. The victims you deal with this week will be someone else’s victims next week. Witnesses refuse to testify, cases get thrown out, verdicts get overturned. The job’s pointless.”

  And the people he’d done it for were self-serving, disloyal and ungrateful.

  She let another few miles and most of Sand Springs pass before she asked once more, “What really happened?”

  He could ignore her, as she often ignored his questions. He could lie, as she almost always did. He could give her some pat response that was true enough to count, but not the whole truth. He hadn’t decided which—at least, not consciously—when he heard his own voice breaking the silence. “I was working Homicide, and one of my cases got ugly. The victim was a prostitute, the suspect the only son of a socially prominent family. I built a case against him, and at the same time his family built one against me. They made it look like I’d tampered with the evidence. They paid off a witness to say I’d threatened them into incriminating him. I got jerked off all my cases and reassigned to a desk pending investigation. Internal Affairs couldn’t find a damn bit of proof that I’d done anything wrong—because I hadn’t—but the chief wanted to make an example of me, wanted to prove how tough he was on his officers. He let everyo
ne believe I was guilty, that I’d covered my tracks so well they couldn’t prove it. I got demoted and suspended, the son of a bitch got away with murder, and the chief got a hefty contribution from the guy’s family to his gubernatorial campaign.”

  For a time the silence between them was sharp enough to sting. Then she quietly said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” With a shrug to ease the tension in his shoulders, he flippantly added, “And that’s why I’m no longer interested in getting involved with other people’s troubles.”

  Before he looked away, he saw the muscle in her jaw tighten and realized that she was likely applying his words to herself, too. As she should, he thought, ignoring the guilt that nagged at him. He wanted to sleep with her, not fight battles for her. He wanted a nice, uncomplicated affair—no strings, no baggage, no responsibilities beyond behaving decently, using a condom and having no regrets.

  Especially the no regrets—that was the most important part.

  They were almost at their exit when she shifted to face him as much as the seat belt would allow. “Feeling the way you do, why did you interfere back there?”

  He would have called it—had called it intervening. Interfering smacked of nosiness, doing something you shouldn’t, being wrong. The difference rankled. “Given the difference in their sizes, that’s felony assault. Besides, if I sat back and did nothing while a man hit a woman, my father would tan my hide.”

  “But your father wasn’t there. He would never know.”

  “I would know.”

  “So you can’t just quit being the good guy.” She said it with some measure of satisfaction, but changed the subject before he could disagree. “Your mother’s going to call you to invite us to dinner. I’m supposed to tell you to be sure and check your messages.”

  “And you got this little tidbit from…?”

  “Your father. I met him this morning on my way into the store. He seems much too nice to ever have resorted to physical violence with you.”