by Rachel Hauck
“Who?” Beck peeked around the tree.
“Mr. Colter. He lives right there.” Bruno indicated the house at the beginning of the lane.
“Then why does he park all the way down there? At the end of the lane? There are no houses there.”
“Maybe he wants the exercise. Or the shade.”
She pictured the man at the Happy Tomato. “Does he wear an expensive, tailored suit?”
“Only during the week. On weekends he goes naked. Seriously, did you take the dog’s meds?” Bruno pressed his hand to her forehead and she smacked it away. “I think someone is homesick for her job.”
She nudged him with her hip. “Maybe. There’s only so much Gilmore Girls a cop can take. So, Mr. Colter? And he always parks down here?”
“Not always. But I’m pretty sure that’s his car. I’ll introduce you sometime. You can ask him. Now, I’ve got to go. Are you all right? How’s Beetle?” At the moment the dog rested in the grass, his pink tongue falling over the side of his mouth.
“He’s fine. Healing. Doesn’t chew at his stitches, which is good.”
“No more blood?”
“No more blood.”
“And you? Are you well?” He almost, almost touched her belly.
“I’m well.” The sweet edge to her reply snapped another rope from his heart and he angled down to kiss her forehead.
“Got to meet Stu. Flying to Ft. Lauderdale, then Tallahassee.”
“Have a good trip. Be careful. Those small planes . . .” She laughed as she echoed Mom’s speech.
“See you in a few days. Want to do pizza?” He kissed her again. This time a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll call you later.” He turned to go, slightly stunned by his casual yet intimate gestures, catching the three words dangling from the edge of his lips.
I love you.
chapter twenty-one
Beck
“I sent you something.” Mom, in her pragmatic, simple manner.
“Why? I’ll be home in two weeks.” Beck prepared Beetle’s breakfast, mashing his pills into the soft beef and gravy, and set it on the pantry floor.
She’d made a bed for him in the safe, dark space. He seemed to prefer it. Yet he had full view of the kitchen’s light.
When she went upstairs to hang with the Gilmores, she carried him with her. She bought pee pads, spreading them in strategic places just in case he had an emergency. Washed his wounds. Scratched his ears. Even sang songs over him.
She steadied him on his feet so he could eat. But first he licked her hand in thanks before diving into his bowl.
“I thought it might help,” Mom said.
“The box? Help with what?”
“You know, your memories.”
“You haven’t been interested in my memories for years.”
“Has anything coming back to you?”
“Not really.” She wouldn’t talk about the visions until she understood more herself. “Mom, since when do you care about the past? We’ve all moved on.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to, you lived it. You packed up all of Dad’s stuff. You stopped talking about him. We didn’t even go to the 9/11 memorial dedication.”
“Well, you didn’t remember him, so I thought, why bother? You must have forgotten for a reason. Why try to undo it?”
Mom’s comment bounced against Bruno’s question. “Why’d you forget?”
“You left me behind, Mom. I wanted to talk about stuff but you didn’t. Then you got with Flynn and blew me off.” Apparently they were having the conversation now. Beck blamed the Florida sunshine and the spacious rooms of the memory house.
“Blow you off? When? I never.” Her tone broke with a spike of emotion. “That’s not fair, Beck.”
“I came into your room several nights in a row after Dad died and tried to talk to you about . . . something, but you were too tired to talk.”
“I was working double shifts, Beck. And I do remember those nights and I told you we’d talk in the morning. When I asked you at breakfast, you said never mind.”
“Well, now I have no idea what I wanted to say. I remember I felt bad about something. Guilty. It kept me awake at night.” Beck jerked open the fridge for a bottle of water. “I’m sorry for my Flynn comment. But I did feel left out when you two started dating. I spent a lot of time eating popcorn for dinner and watching reruns of Friends.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But I was so alone and he was such a good man . . . You like him now, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mom, I like him now.”
Beck checked on Beetle. He’d eaten his small morning portion and curled up on his blanket. She raised his leg to check his stitches. If he picked at them, she’d have to make him wear the lampshade of shame, and she refused to do it.
“I’m sorry if you felt—”
“Forget it, Mom. It was a tough season for us both. So, what’s in the box of Dad’s stuff?”
“Things from his desk at work. They sent it to me about three months after he died. I stuck it in the attic.”
What was she going to do with a box of Dad’s stuff from the precinct? “Well, okay, thanks. How’s everyone?”
“Wyatt scored two goals the other night. A few colleges have contacted him.”
“I’ll text him later. Hey, Mom, do you remember the Endicotts? Natalie and her son, Bruno.”
“Natalie, yes, that’s her name. I was telling Flynn about her the other night—I’ve forgotten so much about those days—and the cute boy who had such a crush on you.”
“Bruno.”
“Bruno, that’s it.” Mom laughed. “I kept saying it was a name from Cinderella. He said, ‘Gus Gus?’”
“He’s a sports agent now. Reps football players.”
“Tell him about Wyatt. Maybe he can start representing lacrosse players. Didn’t Natalie work for some rich lady?”
“Still does. His dad died a year after Dad.”
“Did he? I knew he and Natalie had divorced. I guess you two have something in common.”
“We do.” Beck touched her fingers to her forehead, the imprint of his kiss still there days later.
The way he kissed her and said good-bye, promising to call her later . . . It was a scene from Married with a Small Dog.
Baby Girl kicked, bringing Beck back to the moment. “Hey, Mom, I need to tell you something—”
“Can we talk later? I’m not blowing you off. I’m at work. Look for the box, okay?”
Mom’s side of the call died, and Beck tucked her phone into her pocket. Opening the kitchen door, she welcomed the sunlight and cold breeze. The high for the day was supposed to be in the fifties. A heat wave in New York. A cold snap in north Florida.
But she loved the chill, the way it cleared away the fog of her amnesia.
When she went to check the mail a few hours later, sure enough, Mom’s box sat on the front porch.
Beck carried it upstairs and set it on the bed. She’d grown comfortable in this house, made new memories to cover the old forgotten ones. The flashbacks were a quagmire but nothing to really disturb her equilibrium.
So, the box. Did she look inside? Did she want to disturb the graveyard of her past even more?
Each attempt to call up old images came with an edge of trepidation, caution, as if something horrifying waited for her under the cover of amnesia.
Beck sat in the rocker by the window and studied the box from across the room as if it might explode at any moment.
She patted her belly. “Baby Girl, what do you think?”
A clapping car door got her attention and she glanced out the window toward the street. Beneath the tree limbs, a pair of dark shoes walked beside a black Mercedes.
He was here again. Beck dropped to her knees for a better look, but the second-floor view was too high.
Slipping down the stairs, she felt a little silly. The car was owned by a neighbor. Mr. Colter. Still, she was curious to see the plate. Check out the l
icense number.
Standing behind the narrow porch post, Beck watched Sir Tailored Suit hike down the lane.
She moved barefoot over the grass, tugging her phone from her yoga pants pocket. The New York tag was the same as the one she’d seen at the Happy Tomato.
Ducking behind the car, she tapped a text to Hogan.
Can you run this plate?
Putting her phone away, she skipped back into her yard, picking up broken limbs as a diversion. When he arrived back at the car, she rose up, clutching a handful of twigs to her chest, her loose hair falling over her eye.
“Can I help you?”
“No.” He reached for the driver’s-side door, turning ever so slightly toward Beck. “My company is looking to develop the lots at the end of the lane.”
“I didn’t know they were for sale.” Because she owned them.
“Yes, well, we just heard from the owner.” He slid behind the wheel, the car door slamming behind him.
As he drove off, Beck’s cop gut burned. Text me back, Hogan, and hurry.
Inside, she dug the local police chief’s card from her bag and created a contact in her phone. Then she checked on Beetle, who slept peacefully in his bed under the bedroom window, soaking up the light. He didn’t seem to mind not living in darkness.
She was refilling his water bowl when the doorbell rang. She ducked down, then inched up to peer out the window.
Had Sir Tailored Suit returned? Did he catch her reading his plates? Where was her sidearm when she needed it? She prepped a text to Chief Bedell just in case.
Help! Memory house.
But Memory Lane was quiet. No black Mercedes. However, she spied the edge of a blue sedan parked beside the veranda.
The doorbell chimed again. “Beck?”
“Hello?” She went to the stairs and leaned over the banister. “Who is it?”
“Beck, it’s me, Hunter.”
No! Was he crazy? She gripped the railing. “What are you doing here?”
“Can you open the door?”
Baby Girl fluttered at the sound of his voice, and Beck stared down the stairwell. “What about ‘leave me alone’ is hard to understand?”
Hunter banged on the door. “Just open up. Please. You’ll understand when you do.”
Beck eased down the steps, then leaned against the door before turning the knob. “This better be good.”
Hunter stood on the veranda with his arm around an aristocratic-looking woman wearing a designer coat and a pained expression. His wife. Beck recognized her from the credenza pictures.
“C-can we come in?”
“I don’t know.” She exchanged a glance with the woman. “What’s going on?”
“Beck, this my wife, Gaynor. I’ve told her everything.”
She fell against the doorframe. “And you brought her here?” She’d considered Hunter one of the smart ones.
“Beck, please, I’m not here to confront you.” Gaynor’s confession was a cool breeze, blowing away the dirt and debris that covered Beck’s shame, and she felt exposed. “Can we come in?”
“I told Hunter he was under no obligation. I was going to handle this on my own. I’m sorry he brought you into it.”
“If you let us come in, we can explain.” Hunter sounded like her boss. Her friend.
Beck hesitated, then glanced between them. They looked so eager and anxious. She stood aside, her grip on the knob the only thing holding her up.
Gaynor entered like a curious gazelle, taking in the house with compliments and subtle glances at Beck. She created an impressive and imposing presence.
She was the opposite of her tough, thick-bodied cop husband.
They sat on the couch while Beck perched on the edge of a wingback, the three of them arranged in a triangle of tension.
“The place is gorgeous. Hunter said someone left it to you.” Gaynor gripped his hand, slightly trembling.
Beck tossed a visual check to Hunter. “How’d you find me?”
“Your mom. I called, said I needed your new address for work business. I figured if you knew we were coming, you’d hide out, avoid us.”
“You’re right.”
The strain of this impromptu tête-à-tête settled in her neck and crept down her back. What was the protocol for sitting across the room from the wife of a girl’s married one-night stand?
Gaynor’s gaze drifted to Beck’s belly before turning to her husband. “Do you want to start?”
She was even more beautiful than her pictures, with kind eyes and an unassuming manner. Beck sank in her chair, strapped down by guilt. This woman was unworthy of what she’d done to her.
Hunter shifted about, nervous. “I told her, Beck.”
Beck tried to sit forward but remained pinned, hidden by the wide sides of the Edwardian chair. “I don’t—” She shook her head, unable to speak, unable to look at them.
He was a piece of work. Why hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut?
“We were lying in bed one night.” Hunter paused to clear his throat. “Reading like an old married couple, when she closed her magazine and out of the blue started talking about children. How we never were able to get pregnant and did we have any regrets. When she started wondering what a child of mine would look like, I couldn’t stand the secret for another second, Beck. She deserved better. We’ve been in counseling since I told her about Rosie’s. I figured I’d give our counselor an extra challenge at our next session.”
“It was my idea to meet you,” Gaynor said.
Beck regarded Gaynor. “Did it occur to you I might not want to meet you?” Then to Hunter. “I told you to walk away.”
“We’ve surprised you, and for that I’m sorry, Beck.” She was calm. Irritatingly composed.
Beck never imagined meeting Hunter’s wife, but if she had, the scene would not look like this.
“I know this is strange, but once we started talking, we saw the silver lining.”
“Silver lining?” Her hand rested over Baby Girl.
“A baby, Beck.” Hunter freed his hand from his wife’s as if he needed every limb and faculty to speak. “We’ve wanted children our entire marriage. For twenty years. It was one thing when we didn’t have a kid, but for me to father a child without telling her? I couldn’t do it. Then I got to thinking about the baby and what he—”
“She.”
“She deserved.”
“Is it a girl?” Gaynor’s eyes brightened.
“It’s a girl.”
“Beck,” Gaynor said. “We spent thousands of dollars trying to get pregnant. Nothing worked. Four times the adoption process failed. We finally gave up. Children weren’t in the cards for us. But now—”
“We want to raise the baby,” Hunter said, clear and strong. Like a lieutenant. “Gaynor would adopt her, but we won’t cut you out. You can be as involved as you want.”
“You want to—” Beck snapped her invisible restraints and sat forward. “What?”
“We want to raise her.” If possible, Gaynor brightened even more. “We always said we wanted a girl first, didn’t we?”
Hunter nodded with an emotional hue in his eyes.
On her feet, Beck walked behind her chair, digesting their request. “You seriously want to raise your husband’s love child.” She denigrated the word love since it was nowhere on site the night Baby Girl was conceived.
“Yes, I do. We do.” Gaynor wiped a tear from the edge of her eye and her lips quivered. “I know it sounds unusual, if not a bit crazy, but once I worked through the betrayal it was all I could think about.”
“So you’ve forgiven him? It’s all good?” Beck scoffed. “Just like that?”
“I know it seems unlikely, improbable really, but I have someone on my side who helps me. Hunter and I are continuing to work on our issues, but we love each other, Beck. We are in this for the long haul. Your child, Hunter’s child, will be well loved.”
“Gaynor has faith . . .” Hunter tripped over his words as if conf
essing such a thing were akin to confessing a crime.
“Don’t choke, babe,” Gaynor said with an easy laugh. “He’s still adjusting to church. Beck, I met Jesus and my life changed. I’m not ashamed to say it.” Beck ran her palm over the top of the chair, the thick upholstery rough under her palm. She’d love to be not ashamed. “He rescued me long before Hunter’s confession. I was angry and bitter about being barren. Two years ago when my father died I never felt so empty. My hero was gone. I had his money and his possessions, but I didn’t have him. I had a void my family, relationships, and career could not fill. So I went seeking, and about halfway down the road, Jesus waited for me. He took all my burdens and I’ve never looked back. I didn’t know such peace existed.”
Beck understood bitter and empty. She’d been there. Felt it most in the years after Dad died. Then owned it as a way of life. As the nucleolus of being a tough cop.
The night she’d brushed up against Hunter, drunk and flirting, she’d battled emptiness all week, aching for a purpose, especially after the sting operation went bust.
The job was not enough, yet it was all she knew.
“She changed,” Hunter said. “We were already on rocky ground, then the woman I used to party with was going to church and reading her Bible. She played music I’d never heard before. She forgave me instead of fighting with me.”
“He gave me an ultimatum. Jesus or him.” Gaynor spoke with clarity. “I said Jesus.”
He shot Beck a knowing glance. “That explains Rosie’s.”
So that’s why he crossed the line. His own pain and loss.
Beetle whimpered from the top of the stairs. Beck ran up to get him, keeping him in her arms when she returned to her chair.
“Is that the drug dog?” Hunter said.
“Yes, and he just had surgery.”
“Isn’t he sweet?” Gaynor rose up to pet him. “We had a mini schnauzer when I was a girl. Is he going to be okay?”
