The Truth About Tara

by Darlene Gardner

  “I don’t remember anyone like that,” Tara said.

  “I’m not surprised. You were just a little thing when the bank where she worked transferred her—that was about six months after we got here,” her mother said. “I had some insurance money from your father. I used it to buy the house from her.”

  “Did you like it here right away?” Tara asked.

  “I didn’t like it one bit,” her mother said. “But you did. It’s a wholesome place to raise a child. And my therapist said I should face my fears if I was ever gonna be happy again.”

  “You’ve faced enough for today.” Tara stood, extended a hand to her mother and pulled her to her feet. She kept hold of her mother’s hand, leading the shorter woman away from the water, feeling more like the parent than the child. She thought of her mother coming to the beach year after year on the anniversary of the deaths, burdened by unnecessary guilt. “She doesn’t sound like she was a very good therapist.”

  “Oh, but she was.” Her mother walked with her shoulders stooped and head down. “She gave great advice. I just could never bring myself to take it.”

  Tara disliked the helpless feeling that swept over her. In an odd way, she understood why her mother relived the day over and over. Before her mother saw the tragedy unfold in her mind’s eye, she probably experienced a brief instant when she felt as though she could prevent it from happening. That was ridiculous, of course.

  Even if her mother could turn the clock back almost thirty years, she couldn’t stop fate from exacting its toll. Neither could Tara, who would have been only two years old at the time.

  A chill ran through her despite the rapidly rising temperature. Her mother had said on many occasions that she and her husband had saved up in order to take a family vacation. Yet when she revealed the details of the story, she’d made mention of only three family members.

  “Where was I?” Tara asked.

  “Pardon me?” Her mother reacted as though the question made no sense.

  “When it happened,” Tara said. “Where was I?”

  A look akin to panic entered her mother’s watery eyes. She stammered something unintelligible, then seemed to collect herself. “Why, you were back at the hotel.”

  Tara’s stomach muscles tightened. “Alone? You left a two-year-old alone in a hotel?”

  “Of course not.” The sun shone down on her mother’s pale face, illuminating lines Tara didn’t remember noticing. Her mother appeared more ravaged than she had when she was reliving the drownings. “You were...with somebody.”

  “Who?” Tara asked.

  Such a simple question, but it seemed to stump her mother. A long while passed as her mother stared back at her. Tara could almost see her rejecting the answers that occurred to her.

  “A friend of mine,” her mother finally answered, the words coming out in a rush. Her mother nodded, as though trying to convince herself the answer made sense. “We were on vacation with another couple who had a son around your age. They took you both to the pool.”

  Tara’s mother was breathing too hard. The sun was cruel, showing the tracks of her recent tears on her cheeks. Her brow pinched together, making her expression looked pained.

  She was waiting to see if Tara believed her lie. Because it was a lie. Of that, Tara was almost positive.

  She was also closer to believing she was that little girl who’d been taken from the Kentucky shopping mall.

  She should ask her mother and be done with it. The wind kicked up, blowing sand that stung Tara’s ankles. Her mother positioned her body between the blowing sand and Tara. She squeezed Tara’s hand, love mixing with the pain.

  The question died on Tara’s lips. She wouldn’t ask her mother about Hayley Cooper, not today on the darkest of anniversaries.

  Not ever.

  She wouldn’t allow Jack DiMarco to question her mother, either, even if he were only the brother of a private eye and not a P.I. himself.

  “It was lucky I wasn’t on the beach that day.” Tara watched the relief pour over her mother’s face. “That memory would have stuck with me forever.”

  Like the recurring nightmare Tara had of the woman who shook her and yelled at her to stop crying.

  If Carrie Greer had kidnapped Tara, she very well could have done her a favor. It seemed more and more likely the nightmare woman, and not the one she loved with all her heart, was her biological mother.

  * * *

  THE FITNESS CLUB WAS quiet when Jack arrived late that morning, a departure from Sunday night when music from Tara’s spinning class had spilled into the lobby.

  The only sound came from a large-screen television, where an ESPN broadcaster was counting down yesterday’s top plays. The seating area in front of the TV was empty, and only a few men worked out in the nearby weight room.

  The guy working the front desk had directed Jack to an office and advised him to wait there. Jack leaned with his back against the wall across from the TV instead. The personal trainer with whom he’d made the appointment would hardly have trouble finding him in a club this small.

  On TV, a teammate of Jack’s from when he was a twenty-two-year-old minor league rookie smacked a ball that cleared the center-field wall. That year, the talk had been that Jack and the home run hitter were on the fast track to the major leagues. This was the three hundredth homer of the other player’s illustrious career. Jack was reminded again that he’d pitched in only three major league games.

  “Are you Jack DiMarco?” The man asking the question strode toward him with a spring in his step. He was well into his sixties with gray islands of hair on either side of his balding head and an impressively fit body.

  Jack straightened from the wall and held out a hand. “That’s me.”

  The man grabbed his hand in a firm grip, pumping it vigorously. “Art Goodnight, personal trainer and fitness consultant. And yeah, you heard right. My last name really

  is Goodnight. You can call me Art.”

  “I’m just Jack,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah. The baseball pitcher.” He talked too fast. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though it was hard for him to keep still. Judging by his physique, maybe it was. He didn’t seem to have an inch of flab on him. His short-sleeved shirt hugged his muscular chest and showed off the definition in his biceps. He was wearing shorts, revealing legs that were as impressive as the rest of him. “What can I do you for?”

  “I need some help rehabbing the torn labrum in my pitching shoulder,” Jack said.

  “Did you have surgery?”

  “Two surgeries,” Jack said. “Both on the same shoulder, both for my rotator cuff. I would have opted for surgery this time, too, but two doctors advised me rehab is a better option.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “I broke my collarbone about a year ago in a collision at first base,” he said. “The collarbone healed but the soreness wouldn’t go away. Nobody realized there was a problem with my labrum until this year at spring training.”

  “Have you seen a physical therapist?”

  “A couple of them.” Jack didn’t add that neither had let him work out as hard as he wanted to. “I thought it was time to try something else.”

  “So that shoulder’s been through hell.” Art’s thick gray eyebrows drew together. “I’m not sure I understand. The guy who set up the appointment said your goal is to pitch in the majors again.”

  “It is,” Jack said.

  Art whistled. “What do you think I am, son? A miracle worker?”

  Jack inhaled. The club had a vaguely metallic smell combined with air freshener. “I thought you were good at what you did.”

  “I am good,” Art said. “But you’re asking for the moon. I’d give the odds at, oh, one in a thousand. And maybe that’s too high.”

  “I’ll take ’em,” Jack said. “If I can’t get my fastball back to where it was, I’ll work on my other pitches. So can we start?”

  “Not so fast. I’ve gotta ask you
some questions and come up with a fitness plan. That’s gonna take a while.” Art glanced at the wall clock. “How much time you got?”

  “An hour,” Jack said. “I’m helping out at a camp and need to get there as soon as I can.”

  “Follow me.” Art took off through the weight room past the treadmills and stationary bikes to the back of the health club. His destination was a small room barely big enough for a desk and two chairs. Jack started to sit down.

  “We’re not staying.” Art grabbed a pen and a lined tablet from the desk. “This office makes me claustrophobic. I think better out there.”

  He meant the weight room, where he sat down at one of the bench-press machines, perching on the end of the long leather bench. He indicated that Jack should take the machine next to him.

  “What kind of camp?” Art asked.

  Enough time had passed since Jack had mentioned the camp that he needed to redirect his brain. “A camp for kids with developmental disabilities.”

  Art pointed at him. “Hey, is that the same camp Tara’s working at?”

  That was right. Tara worked here. Of course she’d know Art Goodnight.

  “It is,” Jack said. “Her foster brother Danny’s one of the campers.”

  “I thought the boy’s name was Kyle.” Art scratched his head. “But maybe Kyle’s gone. As soon as one kid moves out, Carrie gets another.”

  “Tara’s mother is working the camp, too,” Jack said.

  “Aw, hell.” Art thumped the tablet against the back of his hand. “If I’d known that, I would have volunteered. I’ve been trying to get that woman to go out with me for about ten years now.”

  “Wow,” Jack said. “You must have it bad for her.”

  “I have it bad for a lot of women,” Art said with a laugh. “A long time ago, I figured out my best trait was persistence. It works most of the time, but not on Carrie.”

  “I like that you’re stubborn,” Jack said. “That’s exactly the kind of trainer I need.”

  “Like I said before, you need a miracle. You know about the anatomy of the shoulder, right?”

  Jack nodded. After all his problems, he could probably teach a section about the shoulder in an anatomy class. The labrum was a ring of cartilage surrounding the shoulder socket that helped hold the ball of the humerus in place.

  “You having any pain?” Art asked.

  “A little,” Jack said. “Some in front of the shoulder and some deep inside the joint.”

  Art bared his teeth and sucked in a breath. “Not great.”

  Jack was used to reactions like those by now. “The way I understand it, a concentrated workout program will strengthen the muscles outside the joint that help rotate the shoulder.”

  “Possibly,” Art said. “It’s more likely you’ll work like a dog and still not get the desired result. PT can do wonders for the average person. It can’t always make a top athlete as good as new.”

  Jack felt a scowl coming on. “I’m starting to question how good you are at this.”

  “Ask Tara,” he said. “She can tell you.”

  Jack sat up straighter. “Tara? Why would I ask her?”

  Art tapped his hand rapidly on his thigh. The man had serious trouble keeping still. “Didn’t she recommend me?”

  “No. I found you on my own,” Jack said.

  Art pursed his lips, clueing Jack in that he’d said the wrong thing if he expected the man to share additional information about Tara.

  “Tara and I are friends, though,” Jack said. “I just haven’t gotten around to telling her about my injury. It’s kind of tough to talk about.”

  Art’s broad shoulders relaxed, and Jack tried not to feel guilty about his white lie. His sister Maria misled people all the time to get information. Of course, she was a P.I.

  “She was an athlete, too. She’d understand.” Art paused. “Or maybe she wouldn’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing I should have said aloud.” Art ran a hand over his face. “It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone as talented as that girl throw it all away like that.”

  “Talented at what?”

  “You name it, she could do it,” Art said. “She was one of the best female athletes to ever come out of Northampton High, but volleyball was her best sport. A couple major colleges with top programs even offered her scholarships.”

  “She didn’t accept?” he asked, hardly able to wrap his mind around what he knew the answer would be.

  “She said they were too far from home,” Art said. “Ended up going to two years of community college, then two years at a small school a few hours from here. Didn’t even play organized sports.”

  “Why was that?” Jack asked.

  “I’ve got my opinions, but it’s best I keep them to myself,” Art said. “You should ask her.”

  Jack would love to do exactly that. If, that is, he could figure out how to broach the subject without Tara figuring out he’d been questioning Art Goodnight about her.

  Jack nodded, because Art seemed to expect it of him.

  “Enough about Tara.” Art’s pen hovered over the tablet. “Let’s talk about you.”

  “Okay,” Jack said, shifting to the all-important task at hand. “Like I said, failure isn’t an option. It’s not a question of if I’ll pitch again. It’s a question of when.”

  He firmly believed that, no matter how many experts cast doubt on his chances of a comeback. He’d defied the odds by even getting to the majors. He’d do it again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CARRIE SAT ON A PARK BENCH across the street from the community center, watching the campers and other volunteer counselors gather the rocks they planned to paint later that afternoon, her mind hundreds of miles and almost thirty years away.

  “Carrie? Did you hear what I said?”

  She looked up to find Gustavo Miller gazing steadily at her with kind eyes. The kindness was nearly her undoing. She blinked to keep the tears at bay. She wasn’t as successful at banishing the grief. All day the weight of the past had made it seem to Carrie that she was sinking. She’d gone through the motions at camp, barely any help with the children at all.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I missed it.”

  “I asked if you’d mind talking to Susie.” He gave a helpless shrug. “She’s down about something, but she won’t tell me what. I thought somebody else might have better luck getting her to open up.”

  Susie was sitting by herself on a swing at the playground but not moving. Her head was down and she seemed to be staring at her feet.

  “Certainly,” Carrie said, rising from the bench. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She mentally kicked herself for not noticing something was wrong with the girl. Tara had left early after leading the children in a rousing game of freeze tag, checking with Carrie first to see if it was okay.

  Saying no wouldn’t have been fair to Tara. Her daughter cobbled together a series of jobs in the summer and Mary Dee Larson’s father needed her to help out at his ice cream and fudge store.

  As she trudged across the playground to the swings, however, Carrie wished Tara were with her.

  A sob caught in her throat.

  She wanted Sunny with her, too. And Scott. He’d always been so calm and levelheaded. He’d be able to advise her what to do about Tara’s sudden interest in the past.

  Carrie crossed to the empty swing beside Susie and sat down. The little girl didn’t raise her head. Now that Carrie was near, she could tell that Susie’s shoulders were shaking.

  “Susie, honey, are you crying?” Carrie reached across the chasm between the swings and put a hand on the girl’s heaving back. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “I’m sad,” Susie said through her tears.

  Carrie knew about being sad. The emotion didn’t sneak up on you. It festered until the tears spilled over because it was even more painful to suppress them.

  Susie must have been down the entire day, yet Carrie had been
with her since nine that morning and hadn’t picked up on it.

  “I’m sorry you’re sad.” Carrie rubbed the girl’s solid back. “You just cry it out and you’ll feel better.”

  Susie sniffed loudly and cried a bit harder. Carrie looked up to see Gustavo regarding them worriedly from where he’d gathered the rest of the campers and volunteers. They appeared ready to go inside. She gestured that he should leave, hoping he’d understand that she and Susie needed privacy. After another few moments, they all headed for the community center.

  Finally Susie’s sobs subsided. Carrie reached into the pocket of her capris and pulled out a tissue. She got up, bent and mopped the girl’s face. Susie’s eyes were puffy and red rimmed.

  “I try not to cry in front of Daddy,” Susie said, her words still broken. “It makes him sad.”

  Carrie’s heart twisted. Surely a father as attentive as Gustavo wouldn’t want his daughter to hold back her tears for his sake.

  “There’s nothing wrong with crying, honey,” Carrie said. “Everybody cries.”

  “Do you?”

  “I sure do,” Carrie said.

  “Doesn’t your mommy love you, either?”

  Carrie’s breath left her lungs. Here it was, the reason for Susie’s tears. Her inclination was to assure the girl that her mother did indeed love her. Except she couldn’t. She knew nothing of Susie’s mother except that the woman and Gustavo were divorced. She could be from the same mold as Danny’s mother. The social worker had told Carrie straight up that Danny’s mother didn’t want him.

  “My mama isn’t with us anymore,” Carrie said.

  “My mommy, too,” Susie said, misunderstanding. Her lower lip trembled. “She’s with a man in a hat.”

  That made no sense, but it was time to get Susie’s mind off her mother. Distraction always worked with Danny.

  “Do you like ice cream?” Carrie asked.

  Susie stopped sniffling. She nodded.

  “I know of a great place that sells the most delicious homemade ice cream and fudge. What do you say we ask your dad if y’all can go for ice cream with Danny and me after camp.”