Frozen in place, she couldn’t breathe. Oh my God, what had just happened?
Enraged, she banged on the door with both fists. “You’re in love with me, Clint Abbott, and you know it!” In full-blown mania, she continued beating on the door over and over in rapid succession. “Open this door right now! You know! You know you love me!” Hysterical, Shannon had no idea how long she’d been frantically pounding and calling out Clint’s name when the police arrived. All she knew was that if felt like every bone in her hands were broken.
She glared at the squad car as it came up the drive until the cop stepped out.
“What are you doing here?” she asked flippantly.
“Ms. Patterson?” She watched his hand go over his revolver. “You need to leave the premises now.”
He took a few steps toward her, the grave look on his face telling Shannon he meant business.
“Leave me alone!” she shouted, tramping toward her car. When she stumbled over a clump of ice, landing face first in the snow, she let out a screech. Scrambling to get up, she spat out bits of ice.
A hand went down on her back. “Let me help you," the officer said.
Humiliated, she shoved him away. “Take your paws off me, you maniac.”
“One more word”—he nodded at the squad car—“and you’ll be coming with me to the station.”
Her blood curdling, she asked, “For what? Knocking on my client’s door?”
“For being somewhere that you’re not wanted.”
“Hmmphhfff.” She yanked open the car door. How dare Clint call the police on her. The police!
Her hands glued to the steering wheel, she turned her car around, peeled out, and started down the highway.
No one knew a tinker’s damn about what she and Clint felt about each other. Clint was in a bad mood, that’s all. He’d come around. People always took out their anger out on those closest to them.
“Charlie,” she shouted, so angry that her spittle shot over the windshield. “You’re so fucking done!”
She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the stupid cop following her. How insulting! She’d like to ram her middle finger right up where the sun don’t shine.
Before she checked into the only hotel in town, she stopped at an all night gas station and picked up a bottle of whiskey. Rarely did she drink hard liquor, but right now she needed something stronger than wine to calm her nerves. It felt like her brain was going to explode.
She parked in front of her room and grabbed the brown paper bag in the passenger seat. When Shannon got out of her car, she spotted the rental car she’d seen Charlie’s so-called cousin driving. Seething, Shannon glared at the door closest to the car. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.”
Inside her room, she took off her man-sized shoes, which were killing her. Fumbling to open the liquor bottle, she poured the dark caramel-colored booze into a paper cup. Screw ice, or mixing it with anything to water it down. She took a slug, the liquor burning its way down her throat. Shannon raised the bottle up over her head. “Here’s to me and all the shit I’ve taken since the day I was born.”
If Clint called the DHS, she’d be fired. Shannon had already had two write-ups because of fathers who claimed Shannon came onto them.
“Three times and you’re out,” her boss had told her.
“Ask me if I give a damn,” she murmured.
“How could you be so stupid, Shannon? You stupid, stupid, fool!” Her mood quickly changing from anger to self pity. She went to the corner of the room, slumped back against the wall, and shimmied down to the floor.
The glass in one hand, the bottle sandwiched between her thighs, she argued with herself internally. Clint wasn’t being honest. He was in love with Shannon. She could feel it every time she was with him. That is… until today.
Inconsolable, she started to hit the side of her head with a fist over and over again. “Stupid, stupid Shannon Patterson.”
“Shuuuuttttuppppp!” she bellowed in a low, gravelly voice. Her bag-of-bones mother was at it again, telling Shannon no man would ever want her. She put a hand on the wall and stood, grunting when a pain shot up from the bottom of her foot into her calf.
She threw the plastic glass across the room and grabbed the open liquor bottle. Weaving into the bathroom, she set the whiskey down on the linoleum, pushed her pants and underwear down, and then plopped on the toilet seat.
She bowed her head, clasped her hands together and dangled them between her legs, the stream of urine serving as a backdrop to her outbursts. “I hate you, Clint Abbott. You despicable washed-up football player. You don’t deserve me.” She flushed and pulled up her pants.
Seething when she thought about that devious man who’d wormed his way into Mira and Clint’s life, she said, “And you, Mr. Psycho Crazy Balls, are not getting away without getting a piece of my mind.”
Stocking footed and unsteady on her feet, she marched to the door, opened it, and started down the sidewalk, carrying the booze with her.
Numb to the sub-zero temperature as she made her way to the room where the rental car was parked, Shannon knocked furiously on the door. “Come out, come out, whoever you are.”
When there was no response, she shouted even louder, “Open up, you little coward! Or I’ll huff and puff and blow the son of a bitch in.”
When the little man slowly opened the door, his hair stringing down out of his man bun and wearing silk pajamas, Shannon slurred, “Well, well, well, whata we have here?” she sniggered. “An overgrown mushroom?”
Rubbing his eyes, Winston said, “What in the—”
She shoved both hands into his chest and pushed him back. “You… you phony bologna.”
“Excuse me?” Winston asked wide eyed.
“You’re no more Charlie’s cousin than a jackass.”
He waved his hand in front of his nose. “You smell like a distillery.” He started to close the door, but Shannon rammed her foot against it.
“Don’t tell me what to do, you cocky little nobody. Medium? Psychic? Ha!” She looked him up and down. “Running around sayin’ you can talk to dead people. You’re”—she put and index finger close to her ear, and turned it in circles—“you’re just a crazy, creepy, little fart full of mumbo jumbo.”
“I’ll give you two seconds to leave before I call the police,” he replied.
“Whatever. But you haven’t heard the end of this. No siree, bob.” She turned and staggered away. “You certainly have not heard the end of this.”
Ranting loudly on the way back to her room, a hotel guest opened the curtain and stared out at her. She smashed her face against the window, her lips pressing into the glass. “Whatcha lookin’ at, asshole?”
Seeing double Shannon plodded through the open door of her room and slammed the door. “This town sucks!”
There were only a couple of ounces of whiskey left when Shannon passed out. She slept fitfully for a couple of hours and then woke up on the floor with a splitting headache.
When she tasted the foul bile rushing up her throat, Shannon made a beeline to the bathroom, but didn’t make it. “Oh God,” she said, wiping her mouth and chin off with toilet paper.
Shannon looked down at her big, fat feet covered in vomit. She had no place to go and nowhere to be. No job. No home. No Clint. “Screw me.”
She stepped into a hot shower, mentally revisiting what had transpired over the past few days; Charlie saying Shannon didn’t push her, Clint telling her to get lost, the fire that had destroyed everything she owned, and now she was sure that Clint had already contacted her boss.
Drying herself off, her anger rising, she knew what she had to do.
Sheffield, Iowa hadn’t heard the last of Shannon Patterson. And neither had Mister Clint Abbott.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
FUMING, CLINT GRABBED A BEER and then stormed to the door.
Bitch. Patterson had a lot of balls not only coming to his home, but letting herself in when no one was here. He watched
as the police escorted her off his property.
Why hadn’t he seen how psycho she was before? He now knew that she was the one who took Charlie’s belongings, and somehow managed to show up wherever he was. There were days that she’d left a dozen messages on the phone recorder, and dropped by whenever she damn well pleased.
“Good riddance,” he said under his breath as he saw her car peel out onto the highway.
His hand tight around the cold can, he walked into the living room. Looking out at the sparkling snow-covered branches, he thought about last winter when he, Charlie, and Mira went sledding. And then about the snowmen they’d built together and Clint throwing snowballs at Mira and Charlie and the laughter when they fought him back. He glanced at the fireplace and remembered the cold nights he’d built a fire while Charlie made hot chocolate.
And then resentment bubbled in his gut when he thought about how Charlie had deceived him again. He couldn’t believe that she’d passed this Winston guy off as a relative. They’d always been honest with each other and talked through problems before either of them made a decision.
All he’d ever wanted was to be with Charlie and have a family together, but it felt like those days were behind him.
There was little doubt that he would never care about anyone else as much as he did Charlie, but if he couldn’t trust her, they had nothing.
When they’d made love today, he’d forgotten about everything. It was as if the world disappeared except for Charlie and him.
God, how he’d wanted to bring her home and start over. But when he picked Mira up, and she’d put her small hand in his, and looked at him with those trusting eyes, once again Clint was torn.
“Pride has no place in a relationship,” Clint remembered his father saying when Clint was in high school and thinking about breaking up with Charlie. He’d lost it when he saw her walking to class with another guy. He’d taken to his bedroom, not returning Charlie’s calls, or accepting her apology.
When Clint finally opened up about what had happened his father had been understanding. He’s shared with Clint his thoughts about trust and respect in a relationship. “Don’t ever assume anything,” his father had told him, “talk it over calmly and listen before jumping to conclusions.”
And yet, Charlie hadn’t respected Clint when he’d told her not to take Mira to a shrink, let alone bring in a psychic. On the other hand, he hadn’t respected her opinions either.
It was Clint’s job as a husband and father to keep his family safe and together, but he was failing.
“Daddy?”
Clint turned and looked up the stairs. The hallway light outlined Mira’s tiny form. God, he was all this little girl had.
“What, honey?”
“This is bath night, ’member?”
“Sure.” He set the beer can down on the coffee table and slowly went up the stairs. Another thing his father had told him was that liquor never solved a problem; it only made it worse.
“Why are you mad at Shannon?” Mira asked.
She was too young to understand, so he needed to be careful what he told her. “Because she shouldn’t be in someone’s house if no one is home. It would be like me going into Chelsea’s house when no one is there.”
“That wouldn’t be polite,” she answered.
Clint smiled. Charlie had often told him that Mira was an old soul. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“I’m gonna get my toys.” Mira disappeared into her room.
Clint turned on the water and started to fill the tub. He took out a towel and bubble bath.
When the phone rang, he started for the bedroom and then stopped. He couldn’t deal with anything more right now. Lately whenever he answered it wasn’t good news. All he wanted was peace, if only for one night.
“Ready.” Mira rushed into the bathroom, her arms filled with bath toys.
“You think you have enough to play with?”
She looked down at the plastic boats, balls, and ducks. “I think so.”
Clint made sure she was settled. “I’ll be back in a bit to wash your hair.”
“Daddy?”
Clint turned back around.
“You okay?” Her eyes searched his.
“Of course.” He raised an eyebrow. “We Abbotts are…” He waited for her to finish.
“Tough.”
He pointed at her and said, “Right.”
He went downstairs and took his beer into the kitchen. Sitting at the table, he rehashed what Charlie told him today. He’d gone into detail about the Hansel and Gretel cottage, the carousel, even the color of the balloons floating in the sky. There was no way that Winston would know Mira’s favorite things.
Winston had convinced Charlie that he’d “mind traveled” with Faith as his guide. Rationally, it didn’t make sense. However, isn’t this what happened when people were asleep and had dreams? Or when they died? Their physical bodies separated from their minds. Could it be possible that Winston did have a gift? And he had the ability to connect with what someone else was thinking?
Charlie had never been one to believe in anything out of the ordinary unless she was thoroughly convinced. It was Charlie who laughed at scary movies when Clint freaked out, and Charlie who would always put things into perspective.
When Mira called to him, Clint walked to the sink and poured the rest of the Pabst down the drain.
Finding Mira covered in bubbles, her toys tossed out onto the floor, he asked, “Ready for me to wash your hair?”
“Uh-huh.”
After she put on her pajamas, Clint blew her fine hair dry and then followed her into her bedroom.
“Story… story… story,” Faith chanted in succession.
Clint read a book, listened to her prayers that never included Charlie, and tucked her in.
He stopped at the door and drew in a deep breath. “Faith?”
“What, Daddy?”
She hadn’t even flinched. “Nothing. Just forgot to tell you I love you.”
“Love you more.” She yawned and rolled over on her side.
If Charlie and Winston were right, and it was Faith he’d just tucked in, Clint had no choice but to allow Winston to try and bring Mira back to them.
And yet, losing Faith would be like burying her all over again.
Clint finally gave into insomnia and went downstairs. After he made a pot of coffee, he debated whether to call Charlie.
An hour later, he picked up the phone. “Hey,” he said when Charlie answered. “Sorry it’s so late.”
“Clint?” she asked in a groggy voice. “It’s almost two in the morning. Are you okay?”
“No.”
“What’s going on?”
“I did what you asked.”
“You called her Faith?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“And,” Charlie asked.
“She answered. Didn’t even bat an eye, but maybe she didn’t hear me.”
Charlie was quiet.
Clint drug the long phone cord behind him as he walked to the sink and looked out the window at the snow covered swing set. “You think Winston can bring Mira back?”
“There’s no guarantee.”
“Faith and I… We’re close you know.”
“I know.”
“Why do you think she turned away from you and not me?” Clint asked.
“Mothers know when something’s not right.”
A few seconds later Clint broke the deafening silence. “Tell Winston I’m ready.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
IN SHEER PANIC MODE, Shannon waited until ten a.m. when Main Street Clothing Store opened before going into town. She’d purchased a couple of turtlenecks, sweatshirt, thermal long underwear, sweatpants, parka, warm gloves, and fur-lined boots. The only reason she had anything to wear when she’d left the hospital was because a nurse had taken pity on her and brought her a few things from Goodwill. Everything in her house had been reduced to ashes.
When all of thi
s was behind her, she’d just take off, Thelma and Louise style, not knowing where the hell she was going or what she was going to do when she got there.
She’d resigned herself to the fact that Clint and Charlie deserved each other. They were both evil. Clint led Shannon to believe they had a future together: making her dinner and staring deep into her eyes when they were together. He’d used her and then thrown her to the wolves. He’d regret his decision, Shannon would make sure of it.
At the hotel she changed her clothes. When she walked to her car, Shannon noticed that Winston’s car was still parked outside his room. He was probably entertaining dead people. When she drove past his door, Shannon held up her middle finger. “Screw you, Mr. Magoo, and the ghosts you rode in on.”
She was calm when she turned off onto a side road about a mile away from Clint’s house, knowing what she needed to do. But when she hit a patch of ice, the car fishtailed back and forth rapidly. Shannon frantically tried to gain control. “Stop it!” she shouted, her heart fluttering. “Right now!” In spite of her efforts, however, the car slid into the ditch, ending up sideways.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Determined, Shannon revved up the engine and rammed a boot down on the gas, but the car wouldn’t budge. All she heard was the fast rotating sound of tires burning rubber.
She slammed a gloved hand down on the dashboard. “Come on!” She jerked the steering gear into drive, then reverse, and then back into drive over and over again, but only sank deeper into the trench. Her getaway transportation was stuck in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. To hell with it. When the time came, Shannon would figure it out.
Her temper raging, she shouted, “You’ve got yourself in a real pickle now, Shannon! A real pickle.”
When she tried to push the door open wide enough to get out, the thick snow prevented her from getting out. Cursing as she kicked away snow with her boots, it seemed forever before it opened far enough for Shannon to shimmy outside.
Teetering, she lost her balance, and her face smashed hard into a back window.
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