Back Where She Belongs

by Dawn Atkins

  She laughed, the familiar liquid honey sound he remembered so well. “You’re funnier than you used to be,” she said. “I like that.”

  “Good,” he said, entirely too pleased. He remembered that she’d lightened the heaviness of his life back then. She’d kept him on his toes, challenged him. He felt the same thing now, he realized, and he liked it. He had to remember that when he got serious about someone. She needed to...tickle his brain.

  “Do you think if I apologized to Candee, she would give me some insights into the company’s finances?” Tara said after they’d eaten more.

  “Candee’s a cool head. She’d be discreet. I’ll talk to her.”

  “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. She’ll probably drag you to her next party. I think it’s candles.”

  She groaned, then grinned. “I’ll go if you go.”

  “Candles? No way. I’m holding out for power tools.”

  “Why? You love candles. Remember that time your parents went on an overnight and you made a path to the bed with tea candles?”

  “And Duster knocked them into the curtains, which went up in flames? Of course I remember that.”

  “We were beating back the flames with wet towels, the smoke alarm squealing. Good times, huh?”

  “To you maybe. Though my parents were so busy fighting they didn’t seem to care what happened to the curtains.”

  “Yeah. That was hard on you—your parents’ breakup.” Tara put down her fork. “And, actually, I just found out that my father wanted to divorce my mother.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin. “We got my dad’s personal effects and I went through his wallet looking for clues. I found an appointment card with a divorce lawyer. I called the office and they told me Dad had met with the guy several times.” She looked bewildered.

  “Damn.”

  “I know. It blew me away. I mean, I knew they weren’t close, but it’s tearing me up inside. I don’t understand why.”

  “Because they’re your parents. They’re supposed to be together. They just took a jackhammer to the foundation of your life.”

  “Exactly!” She looked at him with gratitude. “I knew you’d understand. That’s it. It’s like my life’s been shaken up in a bag and dumped out, pieces falling everywhere. I don’t know what’s true anymore.”

  “And you feel helpless.”

  “I do. That, too. I don’t think my mother knows, thank God. But I can’t figure out why all of a sudden Dad would do this. Something happened, don’t you think? Maybe Dad found out about Bill Fallon hitting on my mother... Maybe that night, Bill Fallon was with Mom instead of at poker... Maybe he was coming back when the accident happened... That could be what he’s hiding and why my mother seems so messed up.”

  Her eyes were frantic, and he could tell the speculation was distracting her from the pain and confusion she felt.

  “Sounds kind of far-fetched, don’t you think?”

  But she didn’t hear him. “What if Faye found out? Maybe her let it go text was about the divorce. Maybe that’s why they were together that night. Maybe that’s why she saw a therapist. She would be even more upset than I am.” Her eyes darted like her words. “The poker guys! They have to know something. You said you’d talk to one of them, remember? That’s important.”

  “I said I would if I could figure out the right approach.”

  “I still don’t know where the car is. Maybe you could ask Fallon. Surely he knows. Also, you should confirm that they did collect the evidence. While you’re at it, check the photos.”

  “I can’t hound the man, Tara.”

  She locked gazes with him, finally acknowledging he was part of this conversation. “Hound the man? You mean make sure he does his job? They could junk the car any day, Dylan. We can’t waste time.”

  “If I push, he’ll dig in his heels.”

  “I don’t care how small the town, police are supposed to investigate. The law is the law. And you’re his boss. You could fire him.”

  Dylan had to work with Fallon after Tara was gone. He didn’t need more enmity than already existed. He wanted no trouble from Fallon until he retired. “We’re not tracking a suspect, Tara. We have no reason to believe a crime has been committed. Fallon will do what I asked, don’t worry.”

  She looked at him in a way he remembered with dread, as if he’d betrayed her. “And if we find evidence that a crime has been committed? What then? Will we pursue it? Or cover it up?”

  “Come on, Tara.”

  She stared at him, clearly fighting the urge to argue. She sat back, then spoke in a voice of forced calm. “Okay. You won’t push him. However, I think we should get a different mechanic to check the car. If Tony Carmichael serviced my father’s cars, like you said, he might not admit that the brakes failed.”

  “Tony’s honest. He’s worked on our cars forever.”

  “He’s human. Humans don’t like to admit failure. And with all this foot-dragging, I think I should hire an accident expert. They’ll have forensic mechanics who’ll know what to look for in the engine. Better yet, tell Fallon I’m bringing in experts and maybe he’ll snap to and do his job. Unless he’s guilty, of course, and then he’ll—”

  “Hold it.” Dylan raised his hands. “The only thing Bill Fallon is guilty of is lazy police work. You agreed we’d find out what we could before you call out the artillery.”

  “You said you’d help me,” she said, anger crackling in her eyes.

  “I am helping you. I’m trying to be the voice of reason. But you don’t trust me. I can see that. Nobody’s innocent to you. Not even me.”

  “I get it,” she said, her voice low with held-back fury. “Your job is to babysit me until I get tired of spinning my wheels and give up and leave. That’s it, isn’t it? You and Bill Fallon probably worked it all out, had a good laugh over me being so frantic.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I should have known.”

  “Known what?” he spat out, angry now, too.

  “That you’re part of this town. You don’t see the corruption, the stupidity, the smugness. You put up with it. You go along. Well, I won’t. I’ll do what has to be done on my own.” She got up, bumping the table so the flatware rattled, and stalked off, every eye in the place following her.

  He let a few seconds pass, then went after her, ignoring the looks, imagining the comments. Can you believe he’s still chasing that heartbreaker? Does he have no dignity? Not when it came to Tara. She was going through hell. He couldn’t abandon her now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “TARA, WAIT!”

  Dylan’s voice stopped Tara just as she realized she’d blindly marched two blocks in the wrong direction for her car. She turned and headed back, meeting Dylan outside Ruby’s entrance.

  “What?” she demanded, crossing her arms, her emotions snarled up, her mind racing. She was angry, frustrated and out of control. She’d been wrong in some of what she’d said. She’d overdone it again like she’d done in Bill Fallon’s office. She wasn’t sure she wanted Dylan to point that out right now.

  “I’m on your side, Tara,” he said, low, holding her gaze, his eyes hot with conviction. “Disagreeing with you doesn’t make me corrupt or a sellout or whatever you think I am.”

  She fought to control her breathing, tried to calm down, to hear the sense in his words. “I know that, Dylan. You’re a good person.” She’d fallen back on the knee-jerk negativity and defensiveness that used to rule her.

  “I’m not against you and neither is the town.”

  “It feels that way,” she said. “Everywhere I turn I get stalled.”

  “You’re frustrated and impatient. I get that, but you can’t accuse every person who fidgets, won’t answer a question or gets defensive of trying to kill your father, sister or both.”

  “And you can’t blindly defend them all.”

  “You’re right. But I won
’t assume the worst about them, either. People keep secrets. Sure. They lie. They cover up their mistakes. But not every person and not all the time. I know these people. I know how they think, what they’re after, what they’re capable of. Give me some credit, Tara.”

  What he said made sense. Her mind had been buzzing with doubts and suspicions and worries, like a fly blocked by a window. “It crowds in on me sometimes and I respond the way I used to.”

  “You’re under a lot of pressure.”

  “Yeah.” Something else dawned on her. “I’m also afraid I’ll find out terrible things about my parents, Dylan. Things I don’t want to know. I have to push on before I lose my nerve. I have to know the truth, even if it hurts.”

  “We’ll find out the truth, Tara. I promise.”

  “Okay.” She inhaled a breath, holding it in, letting it out slowly, releasing her anger at the same time. Dylan stood quietly, waiting for her to sort her thoughts. He was so good at that. When she felt normal, she said, “Don’t you get sick of being right?”

  “Never. You?”

  “No way.” She liked this easy teasing between them. It was better than it had been when they were younger. They were both old enough to be able to laugh at themselves and each other.

  Dylan smiled abruptly. He was looking over her shoulder.

  “What’s so funny?” She turned to see what had amused him in the middle of their argument. It was a bench and a desert willow in a sidewalk planter. She still didn’t get the joke.

  “Don’t you remember that time with Duster?”

  Then it hit her. “This is the planter I fell into. The tree’s so much bigger.”

  “I warned you he wouldn’t hold his stay when the ice-cream truck came.”

  “It was worth a try,” she said. In his rush to get to the truck, Duster had knocked her into the peat moss around the freshly planted sapling.

  Every inch of this town held memories for her and Dylan—silly, romantic, sweet and sad. She had to resist them. The stakes were too high. If she let memories, or Dylan’s praise of the town, sink in, seduce her, she might be tempted to stay, to forget how hard she’d fought to make her way into the bigger world.

  “Now what?” she said, totally uncertain of the next step. That never happened to her in her real life.

  “We go back for the flan,” Dylan said, nodding toward the café window.

  “Are you nuts? Half the town saw me stomp out. If I go back in they’ll think you won the fight.”

  “If we go back, we both win.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please. This is not a Lifetime movie.”

  “Couldn’t resist.” He grinned.

  “How do you stand this? Everybody watching your every move?”

  “I don’t give them that much power over me.”

  “Okay, Dr. Phil. Guess I’m not as mature as you.” She sighed. “I do have to tell the waitress to tell Ruthie her empanadas are the best ever. She should take that food truck job in Tucson.”

  “After you.” He motioned for her to walk ahead of him.

  “I wouldn’t mind taking the Walk of Shame if we’d actually done something to make it worthwhile.”

  “That could be arranged,” he said, spots of gold flaring in his dark eyes like two struck matches, tilting his chin, as if to kiss her.

  Her stomach dropped. Desire tightened some muscles, softened others. She was usually the one who threw out the dare. But here was Dylan waiting for her to take him up on it.

  For a few seconds, she considered kissing him, sliding into that rush of pleasure and seeing where it would take them.

  Then she thought of the gawking crowd—Wharton at its worst—and the urge evaporated like steam.

  Tara walked in front of him, head high, wondering if he’d been serious. Did he really want the entire town to think they were together? Did he want to be together? Or had he known she would turn him down?

  Later, after the caramel glory of Ruthie’s flan had melted in their mouths, when they told each other good-night, she felt like she’d ducked trouble and missed out on a dream at the same time.

  * * *

  TARA ROSE EARLY Thursday morning, braced for trouble, she wasn’t sure what kind. Dylan? No. She’d walked away from him. Faye? No change there. Then she remembered. The will. Today they went to Tucson to see Norton Marshall, their estate attorney, to go over her father’s will.

  She set off for her run, welcoming the chill in the air because it cleared her head. She thought about Dylan. He’d come after her, ignored the onlookers and promised to help her despite her bristles and accusations. He was a strong person, solid in his beliefs. He had what it took to survive in Wharton—to thrive really. She admired him for that, respected him.

  And she wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him.

  Tara pushed the thoughts away—again—as she headed up the hill to the house, breathing hard, energized by the exercise. She showered and made a few client contacts, then Judith met her in the hallway with a tray of breakfast. “Your mother’s in the sunroom working on that charity event. Now’s your chance to help her. Make her eat while you’re at it.”

  Tara took the tray and found her mother at the antique desk, talking on the phone, her back toward Tara. On a card table beside her mother were neatly placed file folders, stapled pages and a table layout with names sketched in.

  “That would be lovely, Margaret,” her mother said. “I’ll put you down for a table then?” She listened. “Oh, well, that’s kind of you. We’re doing very well, thank you.” Hanging up, her mother pressed the phone to her chest, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. After a few seconds, she took a shuddering breath, consulted her paper, cleared her throat and made another call. Tara stood there, stunned by her mother’s struggle and her determination.

  “Yes. Natalie? It’s Rachel Wharton calling,” she said, her voice cool and smooth. “It’s regarding the Harvest Dinner Dance to raise money for the food kitchen?” Tara could see over her mother’s shoulder that the call list was long, with few names checked off.

  When her mother hung up, Tara said, “Mom?”

  Her mother’s head whipped around. Her nose was red, her eyes puffy. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Her eyes danced, frantic and miserable.

  “Here’s breakfast.” Tara made room for the tray on the table. “Take a break.”

  “I’m nearly two weeks behind on the dinner,” she said, turning back to her list.

  “How about if I make those calls? I’ve got time.”

  “You couldn’t possibly.” She sniffed. “You don’t know these people or their families or the donations they’ve made in the past.”

  “So write me notes.” Tara pulled the list closer.

  “No.” Her mother took it back. “These are my friends. They can’t turn me down. You’re a virtual stranger.” She glanced at the list. “Beverly Crowley’s the next call. She’d likely hang up on you.”

  “Because of the protest? Really?”

  “She’d like to hang up on me, but she doesn’t dare. I’m too well-connected. So instead she refuses to look me in the eye.”

  “That was twelve years ago, Mom.”

  “You threatened the Crowleys’ livelihood. People don’t forget that.”

  “Their livelihood? The whole town shops at their store. They were rolling in it. All we did was get him to treat his employees fairly—”

  “Enough.” Her mother raised her hands. “You can’t even admit you were wrong now, after ten years. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Tara bristled, then calmed herself. Her mother was displacing her grief and anxiety on Tara, something she’d done to Dylan just last night. Maybe she had more in common with her mother than Tara had realized.

  “What can I do instead?” Tara said.

  “Nothing. Go about your business.”

  Tara picked up the folder labeled Silent Auction and flipped it open to a list of businesses. “I can call these companies for donations. How’
s that?”

  Her mother firmly took back the folder.

  “You need help and I’m offering it,” she said, trying to be kind, but anger lined her words. “I’m your daughter. We should be able to help each other. Or at least talk to each other. Instead you keep shutting me out.”

  “I don’t have time for one of your scenes, Tara,” her mother snapped, abruptly angry. “You’re here for a few days. This is my life. This is my home. I have to make my way through this on my own. Don’t pretend to help me.”

  Her mother’s words stung. Still. Tara clenched her fists and her jaw. Her mother didn’t want to make peace. Tara’s fantasy of a tearful reconciliation, a loving mother-daughter bond, was just that, a fantasy. Her mother was the same person she’d always been, except with years of built-up resentment of her AWOL daughter. What did Tara expect?

  Heavy with disappointment, she breathed in the delicious aroma of the food Judith had prepared. Judith wasn’t put off by Tara’s mother’s bristles. She went about her business, taking care of Tara’s mother as best she could.

  The tray held a delicate-looking omelet and fresh strawberries, along with a latte and orange juice. She had to take her mother as she was. That had to be enough. “You really should eat, Mom,” she said quietly, all hostility gone. “Do it for Judith. She’s worried about you.”

  Her mother glanced at the food, then at Tara, then out the window. She seemed to be thinking hard. Finally she turned to Tara. “All right. You can do the auction calls. I am running out of time.” She slowly pushed the file toward Tara, then stopped. “But only if you can be diplomatic.”

  “I can do that. I’m good at it. I have clients, remember?”

  “That’s right. Your sister said you’re quite good. Okay.” She pushed the file the rest of the way to Tara and gave it a pat. That was it. The closest thing to a peace offering Tara would get from her mother. Permission to harass local businesses for donations. At the moment, that was enough for Tara.

  * * *

  TARA SAT BESIDE Faye’s bed, her heart full and aching. She’d come straight from the reading of the will to the hospital. Joseph was driving her mother home. It troubled Tara how little time her mother spent with Faye. Was it her guilt over the argument she’d had that night with Faye? Did she think Faye had been so upset she’d driven poorly? Or was it the horror at the possibility of Faye dying? She would expect her mother to show at least as much courage as she’d displayed making phone calls about a stupid society event.