After All These Years

by Sally John

  In spite of her discomfort she had to smile at his exaggeration. “Tony, what are you doing here?” She retrieved the mug from the floor, making a mental note to scrub out the stains before she went home.

  “Nice outfit. Designer?”

  She glanced down at the brown-splattered yellow shirt and the khakis damp from waist to ankle along her right leg. “Again you don’t answer my question. I thought you were leaving today.”

  “I am. On my way out of town right now.”

  “This isn’t the route between Rockville and Chicago.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Listen, I was thinking. I need to spend more time with The Author. And you.” He spread his arms, palms up. “You were right, Iz. I don’t get it. None of you add up. For one thing, you were all dancing last night. I know for a fact that Christians don’t dance, they don’t chew, and they don’t go with girls that do.”

  “Last night’s square and line dancing was more like a PE class.” She gave her head a slight shake. What exactly was he getting at? “Tony, Christianity isn’t about rules.”

  “News to me. Anyway, my editor can’t spare me to work more on this right now. It’s a freelance kind of thing, no deadline. I’ll be back in a week or so. I plan to stick like glue to Brady, except when he’s at his laptop. Then I’ll hang with you. Find out what makes you tick.” He finished with his lopsided grin and a cocked eyebrow.

  She stared at him, silence hovering between them.

  Silence. Except for fuzzy static.

  “Oh, no!” she cried and raced down the hallway. “Not again!” It was a repeat performance at the controls.

  “This is Isabel Mendoza, uh,” she ruffled a stack of papers searching for the news she had read at 8:00. “It’s…” she glanced up at the clock, “um, 8:57,” 45 seconds late, an eternity in air time, “and here’s our local news.”

  She read 90 seconds’ worth and then tuned in to the national news already in progress. At 15 seconds shy of nine o’clock she repeated the weather forecast, identified the station, then released control to the children’s story hour that had bounced off some orbiting satellite during the night, imbedding itself into the station’s system.

  She blew out a breath.

  Tony chuckled from the doorway. “Nice job.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Again. I caught your 8:30 segment on the drive out.”

  “That was no segment. That was at best a snafu.”

  “Oh, well. I hear that Christians aren’t perfect, just…” he paused, “forgiven.” His tone was unmistakable.

  “Tony, your charm flies right out the window when you start mocking.”

  “I know. One of my many bad habits.” He came around the desk and took her arm, urging her from the chair. “Walk me out.”

  With dragging feet she made yet one more trip down the hall.

  At the door he said, “I guess it’s why I’m coming back. I want to know what that means.”

  “Know what what means?”

  “Forgiven. What does it look like in the nitty-gritty details of everyday living?” He leaned over and gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. “I’ll call you.”

  Isabel watched him walk outside to his car. Forgiven. How in the world was she going to answer that question? She used to know what forgiven meant in the nitty-gritty details. But that was before Tony Ward had reentered her life, delivering a whole bunch of ugly baggage with “Izzy Mendoza” written on the ID tags.

  Tony pulled out onto the two-lane county highway, leaving behind the one-horse operation of a broadcast studio. It was…quaint, just a small building with a pleasant, homey feel about the rooms that were bright with windows overlooking cornfields and blue sky. The requisite towers and satellite dishes were in a small clearing across the blacktop drive that widened enough for a handful of cars to park.

  It had been a kick to hear Izzy’s voice sing out across the rustling corn. She had a beautiful voice, whether whispering or fussing at him in Spanish or singing.

  Singing?

  Hmm. Did she sing? He felt a distinct notion that she did. Not that he remembered specific incidents…Beyond visiting her grandmother in central Mexico, his past with her remained a memory of impressions. Intense, but just impressions.

  Like holding her hand.

  Or passionate discussions about…politics…journalism…religion. Religion? They went to church with her abuela.

  Laughing with her.

  Convincing her to move in with him. The apartment on Linden. That last semester he had ended up in a one-bedroom, his roommates dropping out or graduating.

  Why couldn’t he remember clearly? Brushing her cheek just now with a kiss had been an automatic farewell. As if he had done it all the time. It was a kiss between friends, as if their living together had gone a step beyond physical intimacy, as if they truly cared for each other.

  Whoa. That was a scary thought. Was that what had separated them in the end? He couldn’t remember why or how they split, but at 26 he would have been a blur on the horizon at the first sign of a truly caring relationship. He had a shot at writing for the Trib, and he was not about to let anything like a college girl distract him from his goal to be the best reporter that ever walked Michigan Avenue.

  That could explain her anger, although seven years seemed like an awfully long time to hold a grudge. Especially since she was into forgiveness.

  Well, it would be a trip to delve into her psyche. She and Brady professed a faith that was a sham. Why had they fallen for it?

  “Speaking of trips,” he spoke aloud and reached for his cell phone. Hopefully his travel agent could book him a seat on the red-eye to Los Angeles that night. He’d track down Nicole Frazell tomorrow, get her version of the Brady Olafsson broken engagement, catch the red-eye back, and be in the office on Monday. Piece of cake.

  Cal strode across his and Isabel’s adjacent backyards and entered her screened-in porch. He knocked on the kitchen door. When he heard nothing, he pounded a couple of times.

  “Hold your horses, Cal!” Her voice carried through the open windows from somewhere inside the house. Two minutes later she opened the door, her hair wrapped turban style in a bright purple towel. She wore a scruffy “3-on-3” blue T-shirt and jeans. “What?”

  “How many times have I told you to keep your porch locked?”

  She folded her arms and tapped a bare foot.

  He blew out a frustrated breath. That wasn’t the fight he meant to pick. “Can we talk a minute?”

  She took a moment before answering, her thoughts evidently elsewhere. “Sure. Come on in.”

  He stepped up into her kitchen and went to the table, taking notice of the full coffeepot and glass jar of cookies. “Truce?”

  “I didn’t know we were at war.”

  “Come on, Mendoza. You’ve never answered the door and snapped ‘What?’ at me like that before.”

  She bit her lip. “You just want some good coffee.”

  He grinned. “And a cookie.”

  She poured him a mugful and set it on the table with the cookie jar. “Excuse me a minute.”

  Cal always liked stopping in at Isabel’s. Her comfortable rented house always smelled good, usually with the scent of fresh coffee and fresh-baked cookies. She wasn’t all sugar-and-spice femininity, though. The thing about Isabel was you could talk to her almost the same as to a guy. It probably had something to do with her having four brothers.

  She came back, her hair combed and hanging damp. She poured herself a cup and sat down across from him. “I’m sorry I snapped.”

  “No problem. Great coffee.” He was tiptoeing. He hated tiptoeing. “Look, I don’t want to disturb you again by talking about Tony Ward—”

  “It doesn’t disturb me to talk about him!”

  Now that is a convincing tone.

  “I was just tired the other night. And besides, I told you everything I know.”

  Well, she had been avoiding him, but he wasn’t going to go into th
at at this point. “I spent the morning on the Internet. Do you know anything about his sister?”

  She sipped her coffee and gazed toward the window above the sink. “I never met his family. He mentioned a younger sister.”

  “She died. About two years ago.”

  Isabel’s eyes swiveled back to him. “Died? What happened?”

  “She was a missionary in Colombia. The way I read it, some guerillas didn’t like Christian visitors.”

  “She was martyred?”

  He nodded, watching the implications sink into her awareness before he said, “He’s out to crucify Brady.”

  “Cal, you don’t know that. Maybe he’s searching for the real truth.”

  “You’re thinking like a girl, Mendoza.”

  She scrunched her nose at him.

  “Did you know he was nominated for a Pulitzer this year?”

  “A Pulitzer? You’re kidding!”

  “Investigative reporting. He exposed some scam an insurance group was running that involved laundered drug money.”

  Isabel walked to the sink and stared out the window. “But Brady’s just Brady, Cal. He’s authentic. He has no skeletons in the closet. Tony can’t hurt him.”

  “The likes of Tony Ward can hurt anybody. Why do you suppose he didn’t interview me? He interviewed half the town, but not his subject’s best friend.”

  Isabel turned. She looked pale. “Why?”

  “Because there’d be no reason to ask me the kind of stuff he’s digging for. I wouldn’t bother to answer those questions. When is his article coming out?”

  “I don’t know. He’s coming back in a couple of weeks. He said he doesn’t understand us Christians yet. I really think he’s curious about our faith. We know Brady’s praying for his salvation because he always thinks of that first. Maybe Tony’s coming back is part of the answer to his prayer.”

  “I’m still blown away when that happens. You know, when God answers Brady’s prayer in a way I can see with my own two eyes.”

  “Don’t your prayers get concrete answers?”

  “Well, I haven’t gotten shot.” He headed toward the door.

  “Is that all you need, Cal? To not get shot?”

  “Pretty much.” He opened the porch door and turned toward her. “I could pray for you though.”

  “For me?”

  “Yeah, you don’t look so hot right now. Are you sick?” Her forehead crinkled.

  Oh, swell. Now she’s on the verge of tears. Mendoza is never on the verge of tears.

  “No,” she whispered, “but will you…will you pray for Tony’s soul, too?”

  “Sure.” Right after I pray that I won’t have to nail the weasel for slander.

  Nine

  Lia parked her car behind three others at the curb in front of Isabel’s house. Across the street, trees lined a gully where the railroad tracks ran. Four modest houses and a brick apartment building bordered the right side of this block of Acorn Park Lane. At the far end was the vet’s office. Two blocks back at the other end was the north edge of town where Anne and Alec Sutton lived in their renovated farmhouse. Chloe was there now, visiting Mandy and being baby-sat by Amy, although of course that wasn’t a term Lia used any longer in front of her niece.

  Lia’s fingers ached. She loosened her grip on the steering wheel.

  Lord, please keep her safe… Oh, that’s all I seem able to pray these days! I’m sorry!

  It was Thursday, almost a week since the first phone call. A new alarm system had been installed at the shop. If it went off, a siren sounded, which in her opinion wouldn’t help a whole lot considering they lived in the business district where the sidewalks rolled up at 5:30 P.M. But also a signal would be sent to the security office. They were to call her and then, if she didn’t answer, they would notify the police.

  Still…she had received two more phone calls and now today a letter. Intangibles that wouldn’t trip an alarm system.

  She blinked away tears of frustration. Valley Oaks exuded comfort and safety. Just look at Isabel’s house. Architecturally it was nondescript, but the sight of its cheery yellow siding and clean white shutters was like seeing a friend eagerly waiting to give you a hug. Two large maple trees filled the front yard. A rainbow of perennials bordered the sidewalk that led from the street to the stoop, then along the front of a flower-filled planter and around the left corner of the house.

  She took a deep, calming breath.

  Isabel had told her that Cal lived next door. Lia briefly studied his home, which was larger than Isabel’s. It resembled him in a way, square and solid. A wonderful porch with brick pillars supporting its overhang covered the entire front of the white house. Above it a second-story window jutted out. There were trees and junipers around, but no flowers. A guy’s kind of place. He emerged now from the front door. She climbed out of her car and met him at the curb.

  “Hi, Cal.”

  “Hi, Lia.” He smiled, the sides of his face folding accordion-style and his green eyes crinkling in a pleasant way. His teddy bear-trimmed hair was damp. He wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt and jeans.

  “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m headed into Isabel’s, but—” She pressed together her lips, which insisted on trembling.

  His eyebrows shot up. “Now will you tell me what happened?”

  “Friday night, right before I left for the Faire, I got a phone call. There was another one on Monday and yesterday. And…and this today.” She pulled the envelope from her shoulder bag and handed it to him.

  “Tell me about the calls.”

  “They came on the shop line, right after closing hours. I just heard breathing on the other end the first two times. Yesterday there was a scratchy whisper that said, ‘You can’t hide.’”

  Cal carefully removed a piece of lined notebook paper from the envelope and shook out its fold, holding it by a corner. He read aloud, “‘Your history.’ Hmm. I suppose that means ‘You are history.’ They can’t spell, can they? It’s written in crayon on school paper. Lia, I think it’s kids with nothing better to do than to pull a prank on the new person in town.”

  “There’s more. Chloe’s father— Oh, where do I begin?” She covered her mouth with her hands, but the gasp still escaped.

  “How about his name?”

  Lia closed her eyes for a moment and steadied herself. She lowered her hands. “Nelson Greene. He lives in Evanston. He doesn’t have visitation rights. He kidnapped Chloe twice when she was a toddler. About six months ago, after strange phone calls, he showed up at the playground where she was playing with friends. They talked and he gave her a doll. Now Chloe wants to get to know him.”

  “Did you get a restraining order?”

  “My sister did after the first time he kidnapped her, even though he didn’t hurt Chloe or run. He just took her home. The cops found them that night. The second time…He came back a few months later. Chloe was three. He took her from day care and then went to Kathy’s workplace. We pieced the story together after the accident. She never would have gotten into that car if Chloe weren’t in it. Since then, Nelson has stayed away…until this year. I was in the middle of trying to buy the pharmacy and figure out the move. I just wanted to get us away as soon as possible. He has his own family.”

  “He’s married?”

  “Yes, with four older children. He was Kathy’s boss. He was in the habit of wanting Kathy back whenever his wife kicked him out. I don’t know why he’s interested in Chloe now. Some latent altruistic sentiment…” She was going to lose it.

  Cal squeezed her shoulder. “Listen, Lia, he’s never written a note like this before, right? I mean, this is kids’ stuff.” He studied the envelope. “The postmark is faint. It looks like Rockville, though. More than likely it’s not him, but I’ll let the department know. Somebody will patrol around your place tonight. I’ll swing by later. Where is Chloe now?”

  “At the Suttons’. Alec is there with all the kids.�
�

  “Do they know?”

  She shook her head.

  “Lia, you’ve got to tell others. Your friends, the school. All right?”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I thought we’d be safe in Valley Oaks.”

  “Maybe you should work on a restraining order.”

  “Maybe. I don’t want him in her life! Oh, Cal, I’m sorry. That was a major unloading on you.”

  “Hey, I get paid for this kind of stuff.”

  “You look like you’re going out. With Tammy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She seems like a special young woman. Besides being beautiful.”

  He nodded slightly. “I’m glad you told me about the situation. All right if I hang on to this letter?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Cal.”

  “See you.”

  She watched him climb into his truck parked at the curb, then squared her shoulders and looked at Isabel’s house. I hope it’s what it looks like—a friend with her arms wide open because I really, really need a hug right about now.

  Isabel opened her front door and saw a forlorn Lia Neuman standing there, her long black ponytail askew and her dark eyes unfocused. Isabel pulled her inside and gave her a bear hug. “Welcome!”

  Lia fiercely hugged her back. “Oh, thank you! Sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem. I told you this so-called book club is extremely casual. It is so casual we don’t always discuss books. You know everyone, don’t you?”

  “Hi, Lia!” a chorus of voices sang out behind her.

  Isabel watched as her new friend joined the group of women oohing and aahing over a particularly large diamond on Gina Philips’ left hand. Newcomers Lia and Gina would fit in as naturally as Isabel had herself four years ago. Observing the hugs and gentle camaraderie, she smiled. Christ’s love was palpable whenever they gathered. It was the only thing they all shared in common. Well, that and a passion for reading.

  Tonight was their first meeting of the season, the first Thursday in September. If anyone were regarded as leader, it would be Celeste Eaton. Her situation automatically placed her there: She was the pastor’s wife, the oldest at 39, and the creator of the group. Years ago she rounded up mothers who, like herself, needed a regular evening away from their little ones. They called themselves Club NEDD, an acronym for what they did together: nurture, eat, and dabble in discussions about books which they may or may not have had time to read that month.