Emily And The Stranger

by Beverly Barton

  Carly. Carly something or other. He’d known her about a week. He’d met her at the Gold Digger the night he’d ridden into town. Into Hartsville, Kentucky.

  Glancing around the room, he realized he was in Carly’s apartment. He had spent the past few nights here with her, the two of them drinking and messing around. He’d won at poker last night and they had celebrated with a pizza and beer.

  As he made his way to the bathroom, he stepped on an empty beer can. Early-morning sunlight illuminated the tiny living room, which he could see from where he stood in the square hallway. The place was a mess. Carly might be damn good in bed, but she wasn’t much of a housekeeper. The place looked as though it hadn’t seen a decent cleaning in months.

  He flipped on the bathroom light, raised the commode lid and relieved himself. Turning on the water faucets, he leaned over the sink, then made the mistake of glancing into the mirror. Bloodshot blue eyes stared back at him from a face he barely recognized. Three days’ growth of light-brown beard stubble covered his jaw and upper lip. Deep lines marred the corners of his eyes. And he was in bad need of a haircut.

  But haircuts cost money. He wondered how much of his poker winnings he had left. Enough for a haircut? Enough for a few decent meals? Enough for gas so he could ride his Harley out of town?

  He splashed cold water on his face, then lathered himself with soap, cleaning the remnants of sex from his body. He wondered if Carly kept any razors and shave cream around. He thought he remembered her saying something about having her legs waxed at her cousin’s beauty salon.

  He opened the medicine cabinet and found it empty except for a few bandages and some cotton swabs. Without thinking, Mitch looked down at the wastepaper basket beneath the sink. He sighed. Two used condoms rested atop the trash. Thank God he hadn’t been too drunk to remember to use protection.

  He lived daily with the memories of a cool April morning two years ago when his successful life had come to an end—the day the Ocean Breeze Apartments in Mobile, Alabama had collapsed and burned.

  He’d been lucky, he supposed, to walk away without going to jail. But it really didn’t matter that the state hadn’t prosecuted him; that, legally, he’d been innocent. He’d been living in a prison of his own making, trapped behind the bars of regret.

  M. R. Hayden had lost everything that mattered to him. His business, his good reputation, his hefty bank account, his luxurious apartment in Mobile, his Jaguar, his closet of expensive clothes—and his fiancée. When the dust had settled and he’d been left with nothing, Loni had walked out on him. She had reinforced the bitter lesson Randy Styles had taught him. Never trust anybody.

  Mitch returned to the bedroom, picked up his clothes off the floor and slipped into them. He pulled out his old, battered wallet, removed a couple of twenties and tossed them onto the nightstand. He figured he owed Carly a little something for his room and board the last few days. The sex had been free. She’d made that fact perfectly clear.

  On his way out, he picked up his jacket off the back of the sofa. After closing the front door behind him, he walked down the steps to the ground floor.

  Glaring sunshine nearly blinded him when he emerged from the two-story apartment building. He opened his saddlebags and stuffed his jacket inside, then lifted his helmet, put it on and jumped astride his Harley.

  Revving the motorcycle, Mitch tossed his head back, took a deep breath of crisp Kentucky morning air and willed the memories out of his mind. Memories of long, dark hair cascading over a fireman’s shoulder. Memories of burned flesh and scorched pink satin. Memories of a woman named Emily.

  Chapter 1

  Zed Banning checked the address again. Good God, had Mitch come to this—a homeless shelter in Claypool, Arkansas? Zed straightened his tie before he opened the front door and walked inside the ramshackle old building less than ten yards from the railroad tracks.

  An elderly man with a weathered face and gnarled fingers looked up at Zed from his seated position behind a scuffed, army-surplus metal desk.

  “You here to make a donation?” The man wheezed when he spoke. “If so, I’ll go get the reverend.”

  “No, I’m not here to make a donation.” Once the words left his mouth, Zed felt overcome with guilt “Well...that is...I’ll probably make a donation, but that’s not my main purpose for being here.”

  Hell, why was he trying to explain to some pitiful old man his reason for flying in to Little Rock, renting a car and driving all the way to Claypool?

  “You here to see Reverend Wilkes about something?”

  “Yes. Could you tell me where he is?”

  “Out in the kitchen, helping with lunch.” With labored breaths, the man stood, then burst into a coughing fit. “I’ll show you—” Cough. Wheeze. Cough. Wheeze. Cough. “The way.”

  Zed’s self-preservation instincts warned him to step away from the source of whatever kind of germs the man was spreading, but instead he followed him out of the entrance hall and down a narrow corridor. On each side of the middle hallway lay two large rooms filled to capacity with metal beds, every one neatly made with worn sheets and muddy-gray, woolen blankets. Two of the beds were still occupied.

  Zed stopped, took a good look inside the room to his right and saw the broad shoulders and long legs of a man who was the right size for Mitch Hayden.

  “Something wrong, mister?” the old man asked.

  Zed walked into the room, pausing several feet away from the still body of the man he thought might be his old friend. The guy was big and had scraggly, dirty blond hair.

  “Mitch?”

  The reclining form turned over, his bloodshot eyes apparently unable to focus as he glared up at Zed.

  “Huh?”

  A breath-robbing smell of stale alcohol stunned Zed. Dammit, Mitch Hayden, how the hell did you let yourself sink so low? His old friend had aged ten years in five. His once pretty-boy good looks had been erased forever, his handsome face irrevocably marred by years of hard living.

  Zed rounded the corner of the bed, knelt down and grabbed Mitch by the shoulders, shaking him soundly. “What have you done to yourself?”

  “Zed?” Mitch raised his head up off the threadbare pillow. “What are you doing here? Did you come to have a drink with me or to get that little blonde who stole my last five dollars?”

  “I haven’t heard a word from you in nearly five years.” Zed sat down on the edge of the cot. “I wondered if you were dead. I see now that you’re worse than dead.”

  “Worse than dead,” Mitch repeated. “Living hell. Remembering that building burning... All those people staring at me in court... That—that pink nightgown.”

  “What have you been trying to do—kill yourself?” Zed lifted Mitch up into a sitting position, bracing Mitch’s back against the wall behind him. “You’ve turned into a damn drunken burn!”

  “Yep. I’m damned all right.”

  “Why, Mitch? Did you think destroying your life could bring back the man who died when Ocean Breeze Apartments collapsed? Did you think it would erase any of the pain and suffering those people endured? Did you think if you suffered enough you could somehow change what happened to Emily Jordan?”

  “I had to do something to try to forget. Dream about them...all those people. Dream about her. That pink satin gown and her long, black hair.”

  What could he do? Zed wondered. He’d known Mitch for nearly twelve years. He’d hired him on as a construction worker on that motel down in Tampa, Florida, right after Mitch had left the marines.

  Back then Mitch had been smart, hardworking and very ambitious. Zed didn’t doubt for a minute that if Mitch hadn’t fallen for Loni Prentice’s obvious charms and allowed her to dupe him into a partnership with Randy Styles, Mitch would have been a partner in Zed’s construction firm by now.

  “May I help you?”

  The deep, authoritarian voice came from the open doorway.

  Zed turned and saw a small, slender man wearing old jeans and a white T-shirt
walk into the room. “I’m Zed Banning. Are you Reverend Wilkes?”

  “Yes. I appreciate your coming to see about Mr. Hayden,” the reverend said. “We were fortunate that your friend still carried a wallet.” He turned to the old man who’d greeted Zed when he entered the shelter. “Go to my office and bring me Mr. Hayden’s wallet.”

  Zed offered his hand to the reverend, who accepted the greeting.

  “When you phoned, you said the only name and address in the wallet besides Mitch’s expired driver’s license was my business card,” Zed said.

  “That’s right. I was so relieved to know you’re willing to help Mr. Hayden. We’re able to give these men a bed for a while and some food and occasionally a change of clothes, but that’s about it.”

  “I understand.” Zed nodded. “I plan to take him back to Mobile with me as soon as I can get him cleaned up and completely sober. How many nights did you say he’s stayed here?”

  “Last night was his third night. He came in around midnight, banging on the door. Woke everyone.”

  “Thanks for letting him stay.” Zed glanced around the dismal room. “I’ll mail you a check.”

  “Any small amount would be appreciated.” Reverend Wilkes smiled, the dimples in his cheeks softening an otherwise hard, weary face.

  “I’ll take Mitch off your hands. I plan to rent a hotel room in Little Rock so he can clean up before we fly home. I’ve got a rental car outside.” Zed turned back to Mitch, who had closed his eyes and leaned his head over on his left shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you on your feet.”

  “Here’s the wallet, Reverend.” The old man held out the battered leather wallet.

  “Give it to Mr. Banning, please, Homer.”

  Zed took Mitch’s wallet and turned it over and over in his hand. He flipped it open. Empty. Except for Mitch’s driver’s license. Zed’s business card and a tiny patch of pink material. Zed lifted the scrap from the wallet.

  “My God!” Zed recognized the pink satin. Mitch had shown it to him nearly five years ago, shortly after Ocean Breeze Apartments had collapsed and burned. Hastily, Zed returned the dirty fragment of Emily Jordan’s pink satin gown to Mitch’s wallet, feeling somehow that he had invaded his friend’s privacy.

  “What do you plan to do with his motorcycle?” Reverend Wilkes asked.

  “His what?”

  “Mr. Hayden donated his motorcycle to us the first night he came here, but I’m sure he wouldn’t have if he’d been sober.”

  Standing, Zed rubbed his forehead and grunted. “There he lies only partially sober, looking like hell warmed over, smelling like a brewery, not a dime to his name, but somehow he’s managed to keep a battered old wallet—” Zed slapped his hand over the pocket where he’d placed the wallet “—and the Harley he bought twelve years ago when he first got out of the marines.”

  “Your friend is a man being chased by demons.” Reverend Wilkes reached in his pocket, pulled out a tarnished key chain and handed it to Zed. “Perhaps you can help him exorcise those demons.”

  Zed accepted the circular chain, the key to Mitch’s motorcycle its sole occupant. “I’ll make arrangements to have the Harley shipped to Mobile. Once Mitch gets back on his feet, he’ll want that old pile of scrap metal.”

  Zed lifted Mitch off the bed, circling him around the waist as he draped Mitch’s left arm over his shoulder. Mitch shuffled his feet when Zed took a few tentative steps.

  “Let me help you with him,” Reverend Wilkes said.

  Together the two men escorted Mitch outside, the cold January wind a sobering slap in his face. Mitch groaned.

  “Where are we going?” he asked when Zed and the reverend eased him into the front seat of Zed’s rental car.

  “I’m taking you back to Mobile,” Zed told him. “It’s time you came to terms with the past.”

  “I don’t want to go back to Mobile.”

  “Tough! You’re going whether you want to or not. I’m finding you a place to live and giving you a job. The rest will be up to you.”

  “I can’t go back to Mobile!”

  “You can and you will.” Zed slammed the door, then rounded the hood of the Lincoln. “Don’t even think about getting out of this car.”

  “You don’t understand,” Mitch said. “I dream about that building collapsing, about all those people being injured, about that man dying. About her. It’s all I think about, no matter where I go or what I do.”

  “Then it shouldn’t matter whether you’re in Hong Kong or in Mobile, should it?” Zed got in the car, started the engine and drove away from the homeless shelter.

  “Why the hell did you bother to come get me?”

  “Because I think everybody deserves a second chance,” Zed said. “And you’ve obviously punished yourself more than enough for something that wasn’t really your fault.”

  “It was my fault. If I hadn’t been such a fool. If I hadn’t—”

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’ll give you a couple of weeks to pull yourself together and then you’ll start work on my job site in Gulf Shores. It’ll be a laborer’s job, just like the first job I gave you twelve years ago. Use an alias if it’ll make things easier for you. Believe me, you’ve changed so much that only your closest friends would recognize you now.”

  “I sure could use a drink.”

  Zed glared at Mitch. “What you need and what you’re going to get is a bath.”

  Mitch grinned. “What’s the matter, old pal of mine? Do I stink?”

  “You smell like you fell into a mixture of rum and cow manure.”

  Zed glanced at Mitch and the two men broke into hearty laughter.

  God, what a sorry sight Mitch was. The years since the Ocean Breeze disaster had changed him, aged him, hardened him. Zed couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since Mitch Hayden had truly laughed about anything.

  Zed was determined to help Mitch. He could give him a job; that was easy enough. And Mitch could live, rent-free, in one of the apartment buildings he owned.

  Yeah, he could provide his friend with a job and a place to live, but it would be up to Mitch to straighten out the mess his life had become and find a way to put the past behind him.

  “You’ve done what?” Fowler. Jordan frowned at his niece.

  “I’ve bought half ownership in an art supply store in Fairhope. While my partner takes care of the business details, I’m going to teach art classes.”

  “My dear girl, I know you had mentioned that it was time you began rebuilding your life, but I had no idea that you’d rush into anything so foolish as investing your money in some little art store.” Fowler laid down the Mobile Register, pushed his wire-frame glasses upward on his nose and stared disapprovingly at his nephew’s widow.

  “I’ve put my life on hold long enough,” Emily told him. “I’ve allowed you to pamper me—coddle me, really—for much too long. I should have been out on my own a couple of years ago. I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding away here with you.”

  “Is that what you think you’ve been doing, Emily? Hiding away?”

  Fowler couldn’t bear the thought of his precious little Emily leaving his home, the sanctuary of his protection. For the past five years, ever since Stuart’s tragic death, Fowler had—gladly, joyously—devoted his life to her. She had become as dear to him as a child...as a sister. The very thought that anyone or anything would ever harm her again created a burning rage inside him. But how could he keep her safe if she went back out into the cruel world, a world her fragile sensibilities weren’t prepared to encounter?

  Easing back her chair, Emily rose from the dining table and went over to Stuart’s uncle. She placed her hand on his thin shoulder. “Yes, I’ve been hiding away from the world ever since Stuart died and you know it. I used the operations on my back as an excuse not to start living again. I’ve imposed on you for five years. You’ve given up far too much to take care of me. It’s time I gave you back your life and it’s way past time that I had a
life of my own.”

  Fowler. laid his hand over Emily’s where it rested on his shoulder. Turning his head sideways, he gazed up into her beautiful face and patted her hand affectionately. Didn’t she realize, he wondered, that he had given up nothing, that before she had come to live with him here in his family’s big old Victorian house, he had been alone and very lonely? Didn’t she know that she had given his life meaning? Surely she knew how much he loved her.

  “Well, my dear, if this is what you want, of course I won’t try to stop you.” Fowler brought Emily’s hand to his lips and placed a fatherly kiss on her knuckles. “I suppose a forty-fiveminute drive from here to Fairhope every day won’t be that bad.

  You’ll need a new car, of course. I’ll call Harry and have him bring over a new Mercedes for—”

  Emily kissed Fowler’s forehead. “You will do no such thing. My LeSabre is only six years old. Stuart and I bought it new. Besides, I won’t be making a trip every day.”

  Fowler snapped his head around and glared at Emily. “What do you mean?”

  “Now, don’t go getting all upset.” Emily gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But I’ve decided to move into Grammy’s Point Clear beach cottage. You know I’ve been redecorating it for the past year.”

  “Yes, I know you have, but...” Fowler let his words trail off as his mind considered the reality of Emily’s announcement. She intended to move out of his house, away from him, to live on her own. How could he bear to live alone again, to live without Emily’s sweet smile and loving presence? “Hannah’s cottage was built as a summer retreat, not as a year-round residence.”

  “Dozens of families have turned the old summer cottages on the eastern shore into year-round homes. I love Grammy’s cottage. Some of the happiest days of my childhood were spent there with her. I think that’s why she left it to me in her will.”

  “But you’ll be all alone out there. Aren’t the two nearest cottages both still rental houses?”