by Leanna Ellis
“Yesterday. Today. Not sure.”
“Did you know Rick already?”
“No.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“At that boring party.”
“The Wards? Over at the dance hall?”
He nodded.
“Your folks drag you there?”
“My grandmother.”
“I see. How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
And Rick Parker was eighteen. “You been in trouble like this before?”
“No.”
“You tried weed before?”
“Once.” The kid didn’t have to admit that. Maybe he was honest. If so, that would be a plus. But Drew always waited to see how the truth played out.
“Why tonight?”
He shrugged.
“You givin’ your folks a hard time?”
“No.”
“You upset about your grandfather?”
“No.”
That wasn’t surprising. Drew doubted the kid was close to Archie. After all, they hardly saw each other. Or maybe the kid wasn’t upset because he knew something Drew didn’t. Maybe he could get information about Archie out of Oliver.
“It’s a pretty hard thing losin’ your grandpa.”
He shrugged.
“Were you close to him?”
“Not really.”
Drew waited.
“My grandmother—” The kid stopped himself.
“Go on.”
His mouth pulled to the side. “It doesn’t matter.”
Drew sat on the edge of the table, crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t sure why, but he liked this kid, sensed he was good, not a troublemaker like Rick. Maybe because Oliver wasn’t insisting that Drew call his dad. His big-shot attorney dad. Oh, sure, Drew knew who the kid’s father was. Everyone in town knew. Betty Lynne Davidson had made sure everyone knew about her son-in-law, the high-powered lawyer. How he made big corporations tremble in their boots. What about the boy though? Was he afraid of his own father?
“I know your grandma.” Drew smiled, imagining how Betty Lynne wasn’t the cuddly, sweet grandma type. “Know how she can be.”
“Wacko,” he mumbled.
That’s the second time he’d heard that in one day. He had never thought of Betty Lynne Davidson as crazy. Determined. Strong willed. Difficult at times. He had seen her operating at church, in the community, always volunteering, always handling things her way. She was the first to offer to help someone in need. She was the first to take food when needed. She could jump into a crisis situation and know what to do, and it was hard to find fault with that. He didn’t like hysterics, which never helped. He had watched Archie hop-to when she said jump. She was just a born leader. Drew usually stayed clear of her though. After all, she had made it clear a long time ago that he wasn’t good enough for her family.
“Stay away from my daughter,” she had said to him once when he and Suzanne were in high school. “My daughter is not your type. Suzanne has plans.” Plans that didn’t include him.
“I’m gonna have to call your folks,” he said to Oliver.
“I know.” The kid had the slumped shoulders of defeat.
Drew always worried when he picked up kids what their home life was like. He never wanted to make things worse. He knew with Rick Parker, his dad had beat him black and blue. Now Rick was living on his own. He only answered to himself. But what of Oliver Mullins? He couldn’t imagine Suzanne would be married to a harsh man. She was strong, like her mother, yet softer, not as domineering or controlling.
“That bother you? Me calling your folks?”
He shrugged. “You know my mom, don’t you?”
Drew braced himself for the inevitable “My dad’s gonna” or “My mom’s gonna” shoot you/club you/sue you … He had heard it all.
“Yeah, I know your mom.”
“I heard you dated her.”
“That was a long time ago.”
Oliver nodded but didn’t say anything else.
“Okay, then.” Drew headed toward the door.
“So what’s gonna happen now?” The kid’s voice had a slight waver in it. He had eyes that could bore a hole clean through. Yet at the same time he looked vulnerable, like Suzanne. Maybe that’s why Drew had a soft spot for this kid.
“I’m gonna track down your folks, see if they’ll take you back.”
“They will.” But he didn’t sound cocky. “Will this be on my record?”
“You’re a juvenile.”
“Will it screw up my getting into college?”
Drew stared at him. No one he’d ever arrested had been worried about that. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“Tomorrow you’ll have to come in for a test.”
“What kind of test?”
“Drug test. Urine sample. Painless.”
“Why not now?”
“Not here. Over at the clinic. If we do it too soon, the traces won’t show up.”
“Works for me.” The kid smiled for the first time.
“Need eight hours at least. But if I can’t find your folks, then you’ll be sitting here all night and a deputy will drive you over in the morning.”
“Then what?”
“If the results show you were lighting up tonight, then it’ll be on your record. If you smoke weed again, or take any other kind of drug, if you get arrested, then yeah, I’d say it could screw up your future. But this … well, we’ll see.”
15
Suzanne
With one hand at my back and his other holding onto mine, Mike two-steps me around the dance floor. His technique is to hold me close. Most newcomers to country swing keep a good couple of feet apart in order to avoid stepping on toes. But Mike is different than any man I’ve ever known. He allows me to lead and anticipates my moves by the touch and feel of my body against his.
When the song ends, he twirls me around and dips me backward.
“Let’s get a Coke,” he says.
It’s ice cold and a welcome relief in this heat. The dance hall feels like a steam bath with so many crammed inside. The crowd has grown in the last hour. It seems the whole community has come out. Folks from nearby towns have driven over. Old friends and neighbors have greeted me. Some I recognize, others not so much.
I tried to have a conversation with Estelle, but the music was too loud. And before we could say more than “we need to catch up,” she raced off after one of her kids. Josie stopped beside me once, but she was either looking for someone or hiding from some guy she didn’t want to face.
“Doing okay?” Mike asks.
“Managing. You?”
“Yeah. When do you think your mom will be finished making her appearance?”
I can see Mother across the room talking to the Wards. “Soon. Did you hear the latest?”
“About your dad?”
“He’s turned into Casper.”
“Was he friendly then?”
I laugh. “Knowing my dad, he was.”
“Apparently it flipped Flipper out.”
“Poor guy.” Anger steams up my contact lenses from the inside. “Doesn’t Mother see the harm she’s causing?”
“She can only see her needs.”
I know he’s right because it’s always been true.
Mike puts an arm around my shoulders, kisses my temple.
“So what are we going to do?”
Someone brushes past me, jostles my arm. Mike lets his arm slip down my back and guides me toward the doorway. “Let’s talk outside.”
When we’ve cleared the masses, I sit at one of the picnic tables set apart from the outdoor stage. Unique license plates have been nailed to the posts and along the back wall. “So?”
Shrugging, he leans an elbow on the grainy wood table top. “Do you think your mom would forgive your dad?”
“For leaving? I don’t know.”
“I don’t think he did anything per se.”
“T
he fact that he left equals betrayal to Mother.”
He dips his chin with a thoughtful nod of understanding. “An unforgivable sin.”
The crunch of gravel makes Mike turn toward the parking area. An older couple picks their way through the cars, trucks, and motorcycles. The man nods toward us, then they disappear inside the dance hall.
“Right now, your mother doesn’t want him back.”
“He doesn’t seem eager to return. So what are we going to do?”
Mike draws in a deep breath, then releases it. His face is shiny with sweat. I can see wet marks on his starched shirt, which looks like it’s wilted in the heat. “We have to get them in the same room.”
“And then what? World War Three?”
He chuckles. “Then it’s up to them.” His smile fades, and he looks at me with serious intent. “And we have to accept that.”
I nod, run my finger around the lip of the Coke can.
“Can you do that, Suzanne?”
“I don’t know. I know that sounds stupid. I’m forty-two years old. What my parents do or don’t do shouldn’t affect me. But it feels like …” My throat closes up, clogging with emotions.
He covers my hand with his. “I know. No matter what though, it’s going to be okay. You’re safe. Our family—you, Oliver, me—we’re okay.”
“I know.” But I don’t. And I can’t explain my fears to Mike. To anyone.
His thumb traces the edge of mine. “It’s taken your dad a long time to get to this place. He’s suffered a lot during their marriage. For him to have the confidence to leave … well, it might not be a bad thing.”
“How can you say that?” I stare at him, appalled and fearful.
“Because it’s the truth.”
“Christians aren’t supposed to walk away from their marriage.”
He nods. His hand is steady on mine, not flinching or retreating. “In a perfect world. We don’t live in a perfect world, Suz. I’m not saying it’s right or wrong. That’s not for me or you to say, is it? Maybe he’s tried to make things work a dozen other ways. Maybe he doesn’t know what to do anymore. Maybe this is the only way he knows how to get your mother’s full attention. But whatever he decides, it’s not the worst thing to ever happen.”
Surprising tears burn my eyes. I blink them away.
Suddenly blue lights flash, making me squint. I hear a car door slam and the crunch of gravel again. Mike turns just as Drew walks up. He’s wearing his uniform.
“Suzanne,” he says, eyeing Mike, “I need to speak to you.”
Uh-oh. Another serious look. He knows. He knows about Mother’s charade. Did he find my father hiding out at the Old Hockheim Inn? Did Mother finally cross that faint line with her play-acting stunt? Could she be arrested? I take a calming breath, attempt a relaxed smile, but it feels awkward and flat. I squeeze Mike’s hand for support.
“Sure. Uh, Drew … Sheriff … this is my husband, Mike Mullins. Sheriff Drew Waring.”
The two men shake hands, eye each other. Mike knows that Drew and I dated. Once. But that’s all he knows. Does he recognize the name? Make the connection? He gives no indication. No reaction. And Drew is professional in his demeanor.
“I can tell both of you then,” he says.
Both of us? “About Mother?”
His head tilts slightly. Have I spoken out of turn? His pause is slow and deliberate. “Actually, I’ve got your son down at the jail.”
Tightness seizes my chest. “What? Oliver?”
Mike shifts from foot to foot as if stepping into his professional capacity. “Why?”
“What happened?” Panic arcs through me. “Is he okay?”
“Just arrested him.”
“What?” I clutch at Mike’s arm.
Drew’s gaze flicks across my hand, then meets Mike’s square on.
“For what?”
“Possession.”
“Possession of what?” My head begins to reel.
* * *
WHAT WERE YOU thinking? What did you do? What will happen now?
All of the questions Mother has flung at me over the years come back to me now, jam in my throat. I choke them back down, refuse to utter one of them as I walk into the room where Oliver is standing. First I hug him, sniffing his hair, as if that will tell me he’s all right, unchanged, the same. My hand flutters about his broad swimmer’s shoulders.
“Mom.” He shifts away from me.
“Okay, okay.” I look deep into his eyes. They’re green, like mine, but shaped more like—
“If you sign here,” Drew’s voice is brusque, “then you can take him home.”
I turn and face the sheriff, feeling a flush creep up my neckline and warm my face. I search for any sign, any recognition, but his gaze is flat, tired. “Okay.”
But Mike steps forward first. With a bold slashing of pen to paper, he places our son in our custody.
“So that’s it?” I glance from Mike to Drew. “That’s all?”
Lines around his eyes reveal the sheriff’s exhaustion. “Have him to the clinic on Fourth Street in Fredericksburg by 8 a.m. tomorrow. They’ll be expecting him. The test shouldn’t take long. If he doesn’t show, then I’ll come get him myself.”
“He’ll be there.” Mike’s voice is firm.
“Test?” I take a step toward Oliver, as if I can protect him from the unknown. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a drug test, Suz.” Mike takes my arm in his and escorts me toward the door.
“So what does that mean?”
“It means he’ll be tested. If it comes up positive, then he’ll be charged. Until then, he’s in our custody.”
I turn back toward Drew. Anger pumps through me. “You would charge my son?” A cold hardness forms in my stomach. “How could you—”
“It’s his job.” Mike’s hand on my arm is firm, insistent.
What if I told Drew the truth? Would it change things? Would he decide not to charge his own son? “But—”
“It’s okay, Suz. Let me handle it.” Mike holds out his hand to the sheriff. “Sheriff, thanks for your professionalism.”
Drew glances down at Mike’s hand but hesitates to take it. His look reminds me of the same aloof, dispassionate appearance he had as a mixed-up teen. Slowly, he reaches forward and shakes Mike’s hand. “All right then.”
Mike gives a quick head jerk, his gaze fastened on Oliver. It’s the same look he’s used when we’ve picked up Oliver at birthday parties or play dates. It’s always been our expectation for Oliver to thank his hosts. But this hasn’t exactly been a party. Still …
Oliver moves forward at his father’s bidding. I realize in that moment I’ve been holding onto his arm too, as if I’m afraid I might lose my grip, my hold on my son, my past, my secrets. It’s hard to let go. But I do.
Oliver steps toward the sheriff, emulates his father. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
“You’re a good kid, Oliver.”
“Thank you, sir.” As real father and son shake hands, lock gazes that are so similar, so familiar to me, my heart contracts. What would it have been like to have Drew as a husband? As a real father to my son? But I know it wouldn’t have worked. We were too different, Drew and I. He was wild and would have resented being tamed, being told he was to be a father. It was one situation I hadn’t wanted to control or manipulate.
I knew, of course, when I figured out I was pregnant that there was a possibility that my baby was Drew’s. But I was never sure until now that Oliver belonged to him. My son could have been Mike’s.
Could have. Should have been.
Back then, if I had told Mike, voiced my doubts, it would have destroyed my marriage. No matter what the outcome of any DNA test. Even if the baby had been Mike’s, he still would have known of my betrayal. He would have believed I was like the mother who abandoned him. I loved him too much to do that to him.
And so I kept my secret. Because secretly I feared Mike would leave me. Hearing him say it might be good my f
ather left my mother only strengthened that fear.
When Oliver was born, I examined every inch of him, tried to discern whom he looked like. Mike? Fear made me search for images, glimpses of Drew. But frankly, he looked more like me. So I put the questions and doubts out of my mind and simply refused to think about it.
As Oliver grew, he developed more of Mike’s characteristics. I have a picture of them together, Mike and Oliver, heads bent, as Mike (with more patience than I could have mustered) showed four-year-old Oliver how to tie his miniature Top-siders with secret sailor knots. Oliver’s dimpled, uncoordinated fingers look small and fragile next to Mike’s hands, sun-bronzed, lean, and sure. Over the years Oliver has displayed the same flirting-with-danger, nothing-can-hurt-me confidence that I love in Mike. And Drew. Or the Drew I used to know.
When Oliver was little, Mike would rock him at night and sing, “Son of a Son of a Sailor.” When Oliver was older, he knew the words by heart, which reassured me that Oliver was indeed Mike’s son.
Only now, looking into Drew’s eyes, I am sure who Oliver’s biological father is. It’s so obvious. How could anyone not see the resemblance?
“Can we go?” My nerves crackle under the strain.
With Drew’s nod, Oliver turns with Mike to walk out the door. I follow behind them, eager to put distance between these men, anxious to keep my secrets from becoming general knowledge.
“Suzanne?” Drew calls me back.
I turn, stare at him, have a crazy urge to make a fast getaway to the airport.
“Do you have a minute?”
“It’s kind of late, Drew … Sheriff. I didn’t get any sleep last night. And it’s been …” I pause, words eluding me. Unease twists my insides.
He rubs his hand over his face. “Tell me about it.”
“We’ll be in the car,” Mike says, closing the door.
I’m left alone with Drew.
He walks toward me, his steps slow and deliberate. I swallow down all the emotions that jump around inside me like pinballs.
“Look,” his voice deepens to a husky level that draws me toward him, “there’ve been some things said about your dad.”
“My dad?”
“This ghost phenomenon. I checked into some things, and I know—”
“Can’t this wait?” My heart hammers. From fear he’ll learn the truth about his son. From relief he didn’t notice the resemblance in Oliver. From fear he knows the truth of my father. What if he asks me for confirmation? What will I say? The truth? Or will I protect my mother?
