The Burden of Desire

by Natalie Charles

  He sniffled again, triggering an ache in her heart. Despite being eighteen years old, he was so young and vulnerable. Bait for bullies in the holding cell. No wonder they’d already punched him in the face, and she worried they’d do something worse. “You didn’t do anything to me,” he answered softly. “You were always nice to me.”

  “Then for God’s sake, why would you smash my windshield?”

  He gazed around the room, blinking back the tears that rimmed his irises. “I was hoping you’d back off on this investigation. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

  “Back off on the investigation? You mean of your dad?”

  “Yeah.” He sniffed. “He knows, Attorney Dawson. He knows that you’re all trying to lock him up again.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “’Cause I heard him talking to my mom about it. They know that the cops are digging around, and they know it’s because you’re mad that my mom’s still alive.”

  Sally’s throat tightened, though whether from defensiveness or the cutting truth of his statement, she couldn’t be sure. She leaned closer. “James, listen to me. I would never, ever be mad that your mom is alive. Don’t you realize this is the best ending possible in any kind of homicide investigation? It’s something I always wish would happen when I spend day after day thinking about horrible endings. Having her come back to life is like waking from a nightmare.”

  He cocked his head, unconvinced. “Then what are you looking for, if not to lock up my dad again?”

  She blinked. She’d never said she wasn’t looking to imprison his father. “James, you told me that you saw a body in that house on the night your mom allegedly disappeared. We have to investigate that.”

  He sat back in his chair with slumped shoulders. “I was stoned that night. I was seeing things.”

  “Is that what you really think? That you were hallucinating?”

  His gaze swept across the table, and he continued to avoid her eyes. “No.”

  She exhaled. “I didn’t think so.” He sat in frozen silence, his posture as still as the thick air. “You know I’m on your side, James, right? I didn’t come down here to upset you or to give you grief. In fact, I’m willing to drop the charges—at least as far as my windshield goes.”

  That got his attention, though the look he gave her from beneath his eyelashes was still heavy with suspicion. “Seriously?”

  “I swear.” She folded her hands in front of her and rested them on the table. “But I want you to stay out of trouble, got it? No more interventions where your dad and I are concerned. I can take care of myself.”

  He nodded slowly, not fully convinced. “Okay.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, debating whether she should continue to press him. Their fifteen minutes had to be almost up by now, and the poor kid had another night in jail before his hearing in the morning. She wasn’t sure whether she should burden him.

  Curiosity prevailed.

  “James.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Tell me everything you know about your aunt, Mary Ann Hennessy. And we don’t have much time, so talk quickly.”

  He blinked at her. “Aunt Mary? What about her?”

  “She and your mom. Were they close?”

  His eyebrows drew together as he considered the question. “Sure, yeah.”

  “How close? Did they talk on the phone, go shopping together, what?”

  “Close. I mean, Aunt Mary had leukemia and Mom donated her bone marrow. They were close.”

  “How long ago did she have cancer? Was this recent?”

  He raised one shoulder. “Five years ago, maybe. She used to come around a lot for visits, like, stay for the weekend, but then it stopped. There was some kind of argument, I think.”

  Now they might be getting somewhere. “An argument? When was this?”

  “I don’t know. A couple years ago?”

  “After the bone marrow transplant.”

  “Yeah.”

  The doorknob turned, and Rutherford reappeared. “Time’s up.”

  Sally’s heart felt cleaved in half at the look of pure dread that passed over James’s face. It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize to him for everything that had gone so terribly wrong in his life, because someone should. But then he rose and turned his back to her before her throat opened wide enough to allow the words passage.

  * * *

  Ben returned to his apartment and took a quick shower, but he didn’t stay for long. He was too worked up to sit still, too angry to be alone with his thoughts.

  Last night was a mistake. He’d only been trying to help her, and no doubt she’d ignored him and gone off to meet with that kid. The woman was beyond help. Impulsive. Dramatic. He sped down the road, passing lazy Sunday drivers. She was five different kinds of impossible, and he’d been a fool to let his body call the shots the night before.

  Ben didn’t do relationships. They’d never ended well for him, and what was the point? Everyone died alone. The thought of being linked to someone else till death did them part, under penalty of law...maybe he’d believed in that myth at one point. It had its allure, like believing in Santa Claus or the tooth fairy. Convince someone to marry you, and you’ll never be lonely again! Wouldn’t that be nice, to find a soul mate, the person who fundamentally understood who you were and what you were about? But he no longer believed the hype. He’d seen too many marriages fall apart and too many relationships end badly. People betrayed you, or left you or sat back silently and watched you destroy yourself. He’d never known the loyalty and honesty that would make him believe that true love was possible. He didn’t do relationships.

  He could say it a thousand times, and that still didn’t explain his fascination with Sally, or why he’d allowed himself to start believing at some point last night that he’d got it all wrong. That there was such a thing as true love, and he might be looking at his. And that was a ridiculous thought. A lust-drunk, impulsive, stupid thought, brought on by too many months in sexual isolation. He had physical needs, and his body could talk a good game, convincing his brain of things he didn’t believe.

  The car wound down a familiar row of streets to the place where he’d grown up. He immediately thought of Sally’s parents’ house, that massive stone atrocity. His parents’ old farmhouse was quaint in comparison, even though the house was one of the most stately on Main Street. His mother had raised him and his brother alone, but she’d been fortunate to have a small trust fund to assist her, and his father’s life insurance had covered some emergencies. She’d nevertheless stressed the virtues of financial modesty. Designer clothes? That would have earned him a lecture on the number of children who went without basic needs, such as breakfast, home heating fuel or winter coats. He’d splurged on expensive suits and designer ties, but that was with the money he’d earned out of law school, when he was working on Wall Street. His mom had never seen them.

  He grimaced as the car tugged slightly toward the right of the road. The tires had been replaced, but they still weren’t quite right. Mom would be proud of him for bargain hunting for car maintenance, he thought wryly.

  His stepfather was away on business for a few nights. He rang the doorbell and tried the front door, but it was locked.

  “Coming!” his mother’s voice called from inside the house, and he heard the shuffle of her footsteps. “Ah, Ben!” She threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “So nice of you to stop by.”

  “It’s not really a social visit. I wanted to get to work on that ramp,” he said.

  His gaze lit on her left hand, which had curled into a permanent fist. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “How are you feeling, Mom?”

  “Oh, fine,” she replied brightly as if it was no big deal. “Let me get you something to eat.”

  “Maybe lat
er.” He still felt full from the breakfast he’d shared with Sally, or maybe he’d lost his appetite. “Like I said, I want to get started on the ramp.”

  She rolled her eyes and waved her right hand. He noticed she’d self-consciously tucked her left hand away from view, behind her back. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about this. It’s not like I can’t manage to get up the stairs anymore. I’m not an invalid.”

  Her clothes told him otherwise. She had difficulty dressing herself, and opted for sweaters that zipped in the front rather than ones she had to pull over her head. Her feet were protected by slippers because she couldn’t tie or fasten her shoes by herself, but she refused to get anything with Velcro. She didn’t want to believe she was a victim of Parkinson’s, but that didn’t mean the disease hadn’t affected her life profoundly.

  “I know you’re not, Mom,” he said gently, resting his hands on her upper arms. “But I want this to be ready just in case you need it, and this way I won’t worry about you walking up those cement stairs in the winter.”

  He could see the answer didn’t satisfy her, but she didn’t argue. He kissed her on the cheek and turned toward the back door, where he would walk directly to the shed. He’d brought all the tools last weekend, and there was more than enough wood.

  “You look different.”

  Her voice stopped him in his tracks, but he didn’t turn to face her. “Yes, Mom, I’m eating enough.” She was always worrying about stuff like that.

  “No, that’s not what I’m asking. You look like something is bothering you.”

  His shoulders tightened reflexively. “New job, settling back into civilian life. That’s all.” He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile over his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about me.”

  She held his gaze, her own eyes warm with concern. “I always worry about you, Ben. You’re my son.”

  Something in her tone touched a painful place in his chest. The part of her that always worried about him was probably the same part of him that always worried about her, and how much time they had left. He looked away, clenching and unclenching his fists just to have something else to focus on. “No need to worry.”

  He pushed open the back door and proceeded to the shed. He had the measurements already, and could do most of the cutting here. He had just cleared the area around the table saw when his cell phone rang. His pulse quickened as he saw the number. It was Sally.

  “This is Ben.”

  “Ben?” she repeated in a voice that was slightly too high. She was nervous. That made two of them. “I’m sorry to call. You left some of your tux...pieces at my place.”

  Impatience rose in his chest, and he gripped the phone tighter. “I’m in the middle of something,” he said. “Can you just bring them to work tomorrow?”

  There was a long pause. “I shouldn’t have said some of those things to you,” she said. “That was wrong.”

  Hell, yes, it was wrong, he wanted to snap. Instead, he took a breath and set an eight-foot two-by-four on the table saw. “What’s done is done.”

  “I’m apologizing here.” Her voice was edged with a slight condescension. “You said something terrible to me, too.”

  A smile lifted his mouth as he realized how much he missed Sally when she wasn’t near. “I gave you a compliment.”

  “Telling me I’m a good lay is not a compliment.”

  “Even if it’s true?” He smiled again at the icy silence of her response. “Fine, fine. You’re right. I’m apologizing. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He heard her take a deep breath. “So, can I drop this stuff off to you? I’m running errands.”

  “Like I said, I’m busy right now.”

  “Oh? Doing what?”

  Now she was getting nosy, but instead of the annoyance he would have felt with almost anyone else, he felt an odd pleasure pulse through him. “Working. On my mom’s house.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’re welcome to come over. Just throw on some ratty clothing, and don’t bother wearing any makeup.” He nearly laughed at the thought of Sally Dawson performing manual labor.

  “Fine, I’ll come over,” she said.

  The laugh caught in his throat. Damn. She was calling his bluff.

  He gave her directions to the house, and she pulled up less than an hour later. To his surprise, she’d listened to him: her jeans were tattered at the edges and splattered in paint, and the sweatshirt she wore had a hole in the side. “You told me to dress down,” she said defensively when she caught him eyeing her.

  “I did. And you listened.” He hadn’t expected her to look quite so sexy. “You could set trends, you know. Tell me, is there any time when you look like a normal person and not a fashion model?”

  She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed charmingly. “Stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Staring at me. Saying things like that.” She waved her hands in the air awkwardly. “Making fun of me.”

  “I wasn’t making fun of you,” he replied solemnly. “I was being honest. I like you like this.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She cocked her head. “Like what?”

  He scanned her figure with his index finger. “Like this. Relaxed in your favorite clothes. Your weekend jeans and an old sweatshirt. I’ll bet you never let anyone see you in them—am I right?” He had the answer to his question when she sighed and looked away. “Yeah.” He chuckled. “I’m right.”

  He stepped closer to her until their faces were inches apart. She let him approach, allowed him to invade her space. “I think you look sexy,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t get me wrong. I can appreciate the silk dresses and the high heels. In my eyes, you always look like the best-wrapped gift under the Christmas tree—the one I hope is mine, just so I can have the pleasure of unwrapping it. But this—” he reached out boldly to stroke the heavy cotton of her sweatshirt, pleased when he heard a sharp intake of breath at his touch “—this look isn’t stiff and brand-new. This is worn and familiar. Classic. And I often get tired of brand-new, but I’ve never gotten tired of the worn and familiar.”

  He left his deepest thoughts unspoken. What I wouldn’t give for you to be a familiar fixture in my life.

  She twisted her mouth, her thoughts practically visible as she processed his words. “You’re a sucker for nostalgia. Like your old car, and this old farmhouse.”

  He smiled. “Not much different from you and your fixer-upper on the lake,” he observed. “I’d say we both feel a connection with the past.”

  She raised her chin at the house. “It’s a beautiful place. Has it been in your family for long?”

  “Over a hundred years.” He couldn’t help the pride that came from that fact. How many families handed down homes anymore? “My great-grandfather James Prescott built the house himself.”

  “Prescott?” She snapped her gaze to his. “Are you related to Benjamin Prescott?”

  “The Wall Street guru and local legend? Sure, he was my grandfather. I’m named after him.”

  This left her looking puzzled. “No offense, but I would’ve thought your family would be...I don’t know. Living in the south of France or something.”

  “You mean rich?” He smiled and gave a quick shrug. “Between you and me, I guess I will be soon. I have a trust fund that my uncle set up when he died. But I don’t have access to it until I’m thirty-five. Mom didn’t want me to grow up to be a lazy, good-for-nothing silver spoon. She wants me to know the value of a dollar.”

  Sally’s eyes widened. “I had no clue. Not that it matters.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “How could you know, when I drive that old car?” He gave her a sly smile. “First thing I do on my thirty-fifth birthday? I’m going to buy a Porsche.”

  She was so cute, the way she turned her head demure
ly. Cute, contrite and rolling up her sleeves. “Anyway, I’m here to make up for my bad behavior. What are we building?”

  He walked her around to the shed and showed her his plans for the ramp. She held boards in place while he hammered. She even cut a few herself. With a little instruction, she handled power tools fearlessly, and at the end of the afternoon, as the sun began to set, Ben had to admit that they’d accomplished much more together than he’d expected to accomplish alone. They stood in the front yard, admiring the modest beginnings of a sturdy ramp.

  “How do you know how to build this?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I read about it. There are certain ways to calculate the rise so it’s not too steep. It’s just math.”

  “You’re good with your hands.” The words must have slipped out of her mouth before she realized what she was implying, because she immediately started to stammer, “D-don’t get dirty thoughts about that.”

  “I’m a red-blooded man, Sally.” He chuckled. “You know I’ll get dirty thoughts any time a beautiful woman is around. They get downright colorful when she says things like that.”

  Sally’s lips pressed tightly together. She nodded at the house, avoiding his gaze. “Is your mom going to come out to see it?”

  “Maybe later. She’s probably resting. She gets tired easily, and my stepfather has been traveling, so she has to do a lot of things for herself.” He didn’t want to have to explain that his mother was feeling self-conscious about the many things she could no longer do for herself, and had difficulty welcoming company, aside from close family and friends. She had so many parts of herself that she kept hidden these days.

  “Oh.” Sally shifted. “I’ll go, then. It’s getting late.”

  He wanted her to stay, but he wouldn’t argue. He would make his mother something for dinner and head home himself. It had been a long weekend.