Colton's Secret History

by Jennifer D. Bokal

  “You think the men got cancer from working for me?” Her father poked the top of his desk with his pen. “Bill Warner was a large guy with a heart condition who never exercised. In fact, he would rather eat a dozen doughnuts than look at an apple. Tom Cromwell was the reason the phrase smoked like a freight train was invented. I don’t know what happened to Ernest, but neither of those other men were overly healthy when they worked for me.” Tossing the pen onto the desk, her father continued, “And I always made sure those boys had health insurance, even if they couldn’t work.”

  “I thought you said that you didn’t remember either Bill or Tom.”

  Her father sat back in his seat, his eyes wide. “I don’t,” he began. “Or rather, I didn’t. Then when you mentioned that they were good friends with Ernest and grew up together, I knew who you were talking about. I just didn’t remember their names at first.”

  Her father’s answer made complete sense. If that was the case, though, why had a hard knot dropped into her middle? “Is there any chance I can get employee records to cross-reference with all the other names I have on the list?”

  “From twenty years back?” Her father scratched the back of his head. “Sweetie, I’d love to help you out with your job, but I don’t think I’ve kept any records that go back that far. I’m sorry.”

  Before Bridgette could say anything else, her phone started to ring. She glanced at the screen. It was her baby sister and—what’s more—Bridgette was late. “I have to go,” she said. “I’m meeting Yvette downtown.”

  “Go,” said Fitz. “I’ll see you at home tonight, okay?”

  The phone quit ringing as the call went to voice mail. “I’m not sure about that, Daddy. I’m looking at getting my own place. I love you and Mom, but—”

  Her father interrupted, “You’re thirty years old and living with your parents is sad.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” she said. Her phone started to ring again. It was Yvette, blowing up her cell.

  “Your mother will be disappointed,” said her father.

  “I know,” said Bridgette. “I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “Let me talk to her. She seems to be upset with me all the time, so I can handle a little more heat from your mother.”

  “You’re the best, Daddy,” said Bridgette. While swiping the call open, she turned from her father’s office and retraced her steps toward the reception area. To Yvette, she said, “I’m on my way. Sorry to be late.”

  While rushing to her car, Bridgette wished she had time for a leisurely drive or a long walk. She felt as if she had learned important information during the morning. It was as if she’d been given only a few pieces of a puzzle, and without time to think, she’d never be able to see how everything fit together.

  * * *

  Bridgette made the return trip to Braxville in record time. She found a parking place at the curb, next to the address provided by Yvette’s text. It was near where she had parked earlier in the day. Stepping from her car, she looked for the blue sedan along with the driver and her intense and chilling stare.

  The woman and her car were gone.

  Thick gray clouds rolled across the sky and sun. It seemed as if the vibrant colors had been leached from Braxville and the town had been reset in tones of sepia. Yvette stood in front of the hardware store with her arms folded across her chest against the gathering chill. She wore a bright red scarf around her neck. The color made her brown eyes appear a shade darker.

  “Don’t you look stylish,” said Bridgette, almost teasing. “Anyone in particular you want to impress?”

  “Can’t a girl just want to look good for herself? Does my appearance have to be about a guy?”

  In Bridgette’s estimation, it almost always had something to do with a man. Yet, her sister was right. Yvette was entitled to look good for herself. “You said there was an apartment for rent? What are we doing at the hardware store?”

  “It’s above the store. Owned by the store’s owner,” said Yvette, while working a key into an adjacent door’s lock.

  The store’s owner? When Bridgette was in high school, that had been Luke’s dad, Paul. How would she feel about renting a place from her old boyfriend’s father? Could things get worse than living at home?

  As Yvette pulled the door open, Bridgette asked, “Does Paul still own Walker Hardware?”

  “Paul?” she echoed with a shake of her head. “No, the owner isn’t named Paul.”

  Bridgette didn’t press for more information—like what happened to Paul Walker. Or if his son was still in town. And if Luke was around, was he married? Or happy? Did he ever wonder about Bridgette, or why she slipped quietly from his life—and his mind—forever?

  The door from the street led to a narrow landing, with a bank of mailboxes on the wall. There was also a set of stairs that led upward. The steps were clean. There were no odd odors hanging in the air.

  As they climbed the first flight, Bridgette couldn’t help being hopeful.

  “Let’s see,” said Yvette as they reached the landing. “He said it was apartment 2A, on the right. That’s this one.” She had another key, for another lock. Opening the door with a flourish, she said, “Voilà!”

  Bridgette stepped inside and smiled. The floors were wooden. The living room was furnished with a sofa, chair and coffee table. The kitchen had enough room for a small table. High windows overlooked Main Street, and from where she stood she could see La Dolce Vita.

  Pointing to the coffee shop, Bridgette said, “Next time we meet, you can just wave when you arrive.”

  “Or I can get takeout and come up to your place.”

  “Even better.” There was a single door off the living room that led to a master suite. Bed. Dresser. Chest of drawers. The closet was small, but she’d survive. A bathroom was set off the bedroom. Shower, tub, sink. It was everything she wanted—and more.

  “It’s perfect,” she said. “I’ll take it.”

  “You can think about it, maybe negotiate for a lower rent since this place has been vacant for a few months,” said Yvette.

  “I’ve thought about it enough,” she said. “And I’d pay extra to get out of Mom and Dad’s house. I love them both, you know.”

  “They don’t get along and their fighting makes everyone miserable,” Yvette finished for her. “Don’t forget, I’m the baby. I had to stay at home after everyone went to college.”

  “I’m glad you understand,” said Bridgette. “I hope Mom does, too.”

  “Well, if you’re sure you want the apartment, I have a copy of the lease.” Yvette held up several sheets of paper.

  Bridgette scanned the information. The rent was low in comparison to what she paid in Wichita, but still top dollar for Braxville. On the final page she found a line for her signature. After signing, she wrote a check for the first month’s rent. Handing both to her sister, she said, “If your job as a crime scene investigator doesn’t work out, you might have a future in real estate.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m going to deliver this to the owner now. If you want, I’ll introduce you to your new landlord and neighbor.”

  Bridgette consulted her phone for the time. It was one thirty. “I’d love to, but I’ve been out of the office all morning. I better get back.” She added, “Thanks for finding me an apartment.”

  “What are little sisters for?”

  “Aside from rummaging through my closet, you mean?”

  “Hey, that was a long time ago. But I am excited to see what all you’ve brought with you. I haven’t decided what to wear to the bonfire this weekend.”

  After giving her sister a quick hug, Bridgette left her new home.

  Now that Bridgette had her own place, she could focus on her job. It was odd that three men, close friends since childhood, ended up developing the same cancer. Certainly, they had much more
in common than working for her father’s company. It would take all of Bridgette’s investigative skills to figure out what it was.

  Jogging down the stairs, she opened the door leading to the sidewalk and stepped outside. The gathering clouds had darkened, and the wind held a chill. She predicted rain tonight. After buttoning up her jacket, she glanced into the window of Walker Hardware. Her reflection was superimposed on the glass, and the store was filled with people. Her mouth went dry as she scanned the crowd.

  He wouldn’t be there, she knew. Why then, was Bridgette looking for her old love, Luke Walker?

  * * *

  What started as a lousy day had turned around for Luke Walker. The hardware store had been busy. During the midday rush, Yvette Colton delivered a signed lease for the apartment upstairs—along with a check for the first month’s rent. He hadn’t had time to look at either.

  After the store closed, he turned off the lights and left through the main entrance. While locking the door, a tickling ran up his spine. He’d become accustomed to the sensation. Still, the hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end. Using the front window as a mirror, he glanced over his shoulder.

  Just as he expected, Julia, his ex-girlfriend, stood across the street. Streetlamps shone on every corner, bathing downtown Braxville in a golden glow. By midblock, the darkness took over and left everything in shadow.

  Julia stood in one of the dark places. Luke wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or the distortion of the glass, but it looked as if Julia had no eyes—just empty, black sockets. He swallowed. Maybe his decision not to involve the police had been too hasty.

  The apartment building was next to the hardware store. With the feeling of Julia’s sightless gaze still on his back, Luke fumbled with the keys as he unlocked the dead bolt. After stepping inside, he shoved the door closed with a crack.

  The uneasy feeling slipped away as he climbed the stairs. On the landing, he paused. The softly crooning voice of a country-and-western singer came from inside the newly rented apartment. It was six thirty and not an unreasonable time to visit—especially since he owned the building.

  Lifting his hand, Luke rapped his knuckles on the wooden door. From inside, he heard the sound of footsteps and a woman’s voice. “Just a second.”

  The door opened.

  For Luke, time stopped. His pulse began to race, filling his skull with the whomp, whomp of rushing blood.

  He shook away the numbness.

  Of course, it all made sense. Yvette Colton coming to him. A tenant who needed a place for a few months. It’s just that Luke never would have guessed, although he probably should have known.

  “Bridgette,” he said. For the first time in ages, he smiled, and the expression wasn’t forced. “Wow. I mean, I didn’t expect you to have rented the apartment.” He still held the envelope with the lease and the check, realizing only moments too late that he should have taken the time to at least glance at both before knocking on the door.

  She lifted one eyebrow. “Luke Walker. What in the world are you doing here? Yvette said your dad sold the hardware store years ago.”

  It was hard to miss the ice in Bridgette’s tone. Sure, it had been years since they had last spoken. Their final conversation had been cordial, if not friendly. She had called to say hello. His father was sick. Luke was worried that his dad’s cancer had returned. Bridgette had listened and then disappeared from his life.

  “My dad did sell the store—to me,” he said in answer to her question. “And then I bought the rest of the building, too.”

  “You’re my landlord?” she asked, her question dripping with incredulity. “This isn’t going to work, Luke.”

  “What won’t work? You can’t rent an apartment from me for a few months?” Then again, it had been years. A lot had changed. Through distance and time, whatever feelings they once had for each other were gone.

  “You know what?” he said, holding out the envelope that held the lease and Bridgette’s check. “Yvette dropped this off at the store. You can have your money back and tear up the rental agreement. I’m not sure why we’re enemies, but I’m too old for any idiocy from high school.”

  Outside, rain started to fall. A thousand tiny arrows hitting the windowpane.

  Bridgette dropped her gaze and chewed on her bottom lip. “You’re right, Luke. Whatever happened between us is ancient history. I guess I was surprised to see you, that’s all.”

  “It seems like finding me on your doorstep was more than an unpleasant surprise. I really don’t want you to stay if I make you uncomfortable.”

  “Are you kicking me out?”

  “Of course not,” he said before considering her question.

  “Can I apologize for being rude? Is there any way we can start over?”

  Bridgette’s hostile reaction had stung, but Luke wasn’t the kind to hold a grudge, and he found himself saying, “Sure. Of course.”

  “Thanks,” said Bridgette, giving him that same smile she always had—the one that sent his heartbeat racing and left his palms damp.

  Chapter 4

  Bridgette placed her hand on the closed wooden door, her heartbeat racing. In all honesty she never thought she’d see Luke again, much less find him living across the hallway. Then again Braxville was a small town, and she had to be prepared to see people from her childhood.

  Yet, could Luke really be living across the hall?

  Despite the fact that she knew it to be true, it was all unbelievable. Her small apartment became cramped with ghosts from her past.

  Henry and their promise of a life together—cut short by a car accident.

  Her parents and their marriage. To Bridgette, the relationship had seemed so perfect as a child. Now it was fractured. Was the marriage broken beyond repair?

  Then there was Luke and that long-forgotten memory. It had risen to the surface at the sight of him and left a stabbing pain in her chest.

  The sound of a bubble bursting caught Bridgette’s attention and drew her gaze into the kitchen.

  Another bubble burst, splattering tomato soup atop the range.

  “Damn.” Rushing to the kitchen, she removed the pot from the stove. A grilled-cheese sandwich sizzled in a frying pan. She flipped it over, the cooked side dark but not burned. At least she hadn’t ruined her dinner—or burned down the building.

  After pouring the soup into a bowl, she set the sandwich on a plate. True, it wasn’t the fine meal her mother would have prepared. Then again, it was her food prepared in her kitchen. Setting the steaming bowl on the table, Bridgette took a seat.

  She’d seen her mother briefly, when she went to the house after work and picked up her bag. Her mother had been undeniably disappointed but loving all the same. It almost made it impossible to leave her parent’s house—almost, but not completely.

  Spooning a bite into her mouth, she shuddered.

  The curtains were open still. The world outside the rain-streaked window was black as pitch.

  Suddenly she felt exposed.

  Wiping her mouth with a napkin, she rose from the table and crossed the room. Bridgette looked out of the window, her breath fogging on the glass.

  There, on the deserted street, sodden with rain, was the same woman she’d noticed in the morning.

  Bridgette recoiled, as if burned by the glass. True, she hadn’t lived in Braxville for years, yet some things were universal. A woman standing in a storm and constantly staring at a building wasn’t normal.

  What should she do? Call the police? Call her parents?

  Pulling her curtains shut, Bridgette knew there was really only one person she should tell. It was Luke Walker.

  She went across the hall and knocked on the door. It was answered almost immediately. Luke stood on the threshold. He’d stripped out of his flannel shirt and only wore a skintight T-shirt in faded green. Through th
e thin fabric, the muscles of his arms, chest and abs were unmistakable. His short hair was tousled, and for the span of a heartbeat Bridgette clearly remembered the feeling of his mouth on hers.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he asked.

  For a moment, Bridgette couldn’t recall what had been so important. “There’s a woman standing in the rain and staring at the building. What’s more, I saw her earlier today, parked on the street and watching this building. I’m no mental health expert, but behavior like that is odd.”

  Luke heaved a sigh. “You’re right. It is odd.”

  A new idea settled on Bridgette, like snow on an undisturbed landscape. “You know the woman?”

  “Her name is Julia Jones. We dated over the summer. It was only a few dates and I knew it wasn’t going to work. I told her we were done. Apparently, she doesn’t agree.”

  “She’s your ex-girlfriend?”

  “Hey, not all my exes are as beautiful, smart, talented and stable as you,” he said.

  Bridgette couldn’t help but smile. “Gee, you know how to make a girl feel special and creep her out all at the same time.”

  Luke shrugged. The shirt rode up from his waistband, showing a sliver of rock-hard abs. “What can I say,” he asked. “It’s a gift.”

  “Shouldn’t we call someone about your ex? She can’t just keep staring at your building and... What does she want?”

  “To be honest,” said Luke. “I’m not sure. Trust me, I’ve talked to her more than once and tried to explain that she and I are no longer an item. Until now, I’ve blamed it all on her age. She’s young—or youngish. Twenty-three years old.”

  “What about the police? There are laws against stalking, you know.”

  “I threatened to call the cops, but really I felt too much like a heel to file a complaint.” Luke leaned on the doorjamb and crossed one foot over the other.

  His legs were long and strong. Bridgette remembered the feeling of his thighs between hers and, despite herself, she blushed. “There has to be someone to contact and ask for help. Family? Friends?”