She slowed to a walk, her mind still racing. Yes, she looked eerily like the grown-up version of Hayley Cooper. And, yes, she could come up with a scenario that explained the woman in her dreams. But there were other facts that pointed to Tara being exactly who she’d always thought she was.
Tara was more than a year older than Hayley Cooper. She wasn’t sure exactly when she and her mother had moved to the Eastern Shore, but it was highly possible it had been before the Hayley Cooper kidnapping.
She did some mental calculations. She was thirty-two. She and her mother had moved to Wawpaney sometime after the drownings, when Tara was three years old. That was twenty-nine years ago. In 1983.
Hayley Cooper had been abducted in 1984.
The dates didn’t add up!
Her elation faded as quickly as it had appeared. The dates didn’t add up as long as her mother had told the truth about when they’d moved to Wawpaney.
But how could Tara ever determine that?
It wasn’t yet six-thirty. The neighborhood was just waking up, with lights shining from the occasional window and the distant sound of a car motor starting.
She was almost surprised to find herself on her mother’s
street, although it probably wasn’t a coincidence, considering what was on her mind.
A movement caught her eye—a woman, walking down her sidewalk with the aid of a cane to where a newspaper lay in her driveway. She recognized Mrs. Jorgenson, her mother’s longtime next-door neighbor. She remembered Mrs. Jorgenson once telling her she’d resided in the same house for fifty years.
Mrs. Jorgenson would have been living next door when Tara and her mother moved in.
“Mrs. Jorgenson!” Tara called, raising her voice to be heard and waving.
Mrs. Jorgenson stopped and pivoted, waiting while Tara jogged to catch up to her.
“You beat me out of bed this morning, Tara,” Mrs. Jorgenson said. “I’m usually the early bird in the neighborhood and I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
“Coffee,” Tara said. “Do you think I could have a cup?”
Mrs. Jorgenson looked surprised. However, she was much too polite to point out it was rude to invite yourself into a neighbor’s house before seven in the morning.
“Why, certainly,” she said. “Come on in.”
The kitchen felt too warm after the cool air of the morning. Mrs. Jorgenson led her to the kitchen, which was small and cramped but somehow inviting.
“Artie’s not awake yet, so we need to be quiet,” she whispered. “How do you like your coffee, dear?”
“Extra cream and extra sugar, please.” Tara hoped that by diluting the strong taste she might be able to tolerate it.
A pot of coffee was already brewing. In no time, Mrs. Jorgenson set a full coffee mug in front of Tara.
“Thanks.” Tara took a sip and tried not to grimace. She was too impatient not to get right to the point. “You’ve always been such a wonderful neighbor. How long has it been?”
Subtle, Tara thought. Really subtle.
“How long has what been, dear?”
“How long have you and my mother been neighbors?”
“Oh, heavens. A long time.”
This wasn’t going well. “Do you remember me as a little girl?”
“Of course I do,” Mrs. Jorgenson said. “I remember the day you moved in. You were, let me see, three or four years old, if I’m not mistaken. Such a quiet thing. But that was understandable, considering what you and your mother had been through.”
“So you knew about the drownings right away?”
“Oh, heavens, yes. Dawn told me before you even moved in.”
“Dawn?”
“Your mother’s best friend from high school. She and your mother had lost touch, but when your mother called and told her what had happened Dawn invited both of you to come live with her.”
“I don’t remember Dawn,” Tara said.
“Such a nice lady she was,” Mrs. Jorgenson said. “Never raised her voice to anyone. She moved away about six months after you got here.”
“Because of a job transfer?” Tara provided the reason her mother had given.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Jorgenson said. “She moved here because of a man. I think she met him on vacation. Dawn was so smitten she bought this house. Wouldn’t you know, she caught him cheating. She was a bank teller, so it wasn’t hard for her to get a transfer.”
That synced nicely with what Tara’s mother had told her. “And I was three, you say.”
“Yes,” she said. “Three when you moved in.”
“So that was 1983,” she said.
“That sounds right,” Ms. Jorgenson said.
For the first time since Jack had shown Tara the age-progression photo, she didn’t feel as if a weight was pressing on her heart. If she’d been here at the Eastern Shore in 1983, she couldn’t possibly have been abducted from a shopping mall in Kentucky in 1984.
Had she known that last night, Tara very well might have invited Jack into her bed. She almost snorted. Who was she kidding? She would have dragged him there.
* * *
IF JACK HADN’T HAD AN agenda, the throbbing in his shoulder would have driven him back to his bay-front house after camp and rehab on Monday afternoon. The ibuprofen tablets he kept there didn’t help much, but sitting still usually did.
Though, if he’d taken it easy today he might not be suffering. Operating on the principle that more is better, he’d gone against Art Goodnight’s advice to work out the shoulder only once a day to speed up the excruciatingly slow healing process.
The throb in his shoulder told him he shouldn’t have.
He heard the thwacking sound of hands hitting balls and voices celebrating a point being scored before he saw the group playing volleyball on the strip of beach adjacent to the public pier in Cape Charles where he and Tara had fished with Danny.
The net was set up beyond the surf line, with six players on each side, only a few of whom were women.
Jack hung back on the wooden walkway, his attention snagged by one of them. Tara was taller than some of the men and nearly as tall as the others, but that wasn’t what set her apart. Neither were the long, toned limbs left bare by her sleeveless red top and navy shorts. Something else was at play, a characteristic shared by every top athlete Jack had ever known.
Confidence radiated from her, and not only because of the way she carried herself. Her weight was balanced on the balls of her feet and her head mimicked the motion of the volleyball. Anyone watching could tell she wanted the ball to come to her.
She was in her team’s front row in the outside hitter position. A guy on the opposing team served a bullet that one of Tara’s teammates bumped to the setter, a short woman in the center of the front line. The woman got under the ball and sent it looping in a high arc over to Tara.
Tara leaped, elevating herself over the sand with impressive loft. While airborne, she cocked her right elbow and spiked the volleyball. It shot over the net, finding an empty space on the court and kicking up sand.
“Damn, Tara!” exclaimed a big, barrel-chested guy who looked as if he could lift the combined weight of his teammates. “Do you have to keep doing that to us?”
“Yes, she does,” retorted the short woman who had set Tara up for the spike. It was Mary Dee, her friend from the ice cream shop. “It’s only fair. You had her on your team last week.”
“I tried to get her this week, too,” the big guy said. “But she wouldn’t take a bribe.”
“You only offered me five bucks, Butch,” Tara said.
“Hey, I’m not a rich man,” Butch said.
“And that’s why Tara’s gonna make you pay,” Mary Dee retorted.
Smiling to himself at the good-natured banter, Jack resumed his walk to the beach, the sand getting in his sandals. He’d never get tired of breathing in the salty air. A few players noticed his approach, including Mary Dee.
“Jack!” she called, waving wildly. �
�Are you here to play?”
He imagined lifting his arm to serve a volleyball and the shoulder gave another throb.
“To watch,” he called back, his eyes glued to Tara. She nodded in greeting, her teeth flashing in the rapidly fading daylight.
A smile was a good start. She’d given him a few of them today at camp, too. He interpreted the smiles to mean she didn’t regret their kiss Saturday night. He was increasingly certain he’d been right to ask if she wanted to stop.
When they made love, he wanted her to be sure.
“Is that your husband, Mary Dee?” asked a skinny teammate who would be the next server.
“No, sir,” Mary Dee said. “Jack’s here for Tara, not me.”
“I heard that, Tara. He’ll make you nervous,” Butch called from the other side of the net in a teasing singsong voice.
“You wish!” Mary Dee hollered.
Jack retraced his steps, sitting down at the bottom of the wooden stairs so he wasn’t directly in Tara’s line of vision. Nerves could do funny things to an athlete. He’d seen baseball players who should have been stars crumble when the going got tough.
The game resumed, with Tara spiking the ball with precision whenever it was within reach. The only snag her teammates ran into was getting the ball to her. When she touched it, whether from the back line or the front, her team usually got the point. Eventually they won the game.
Tara’s teammates gathered around her when it was over, exchanging high fives. “MVP! MVP!” Mary Dee chanted.
Tara slung an arm around her friend. “Only because you set me up.”
“Many can be set up,” Mary Dee said. “Only a few can dominate a game.”
“I hardly dominated,” Tara said.
Jack got to his feet and approached the two women, not only impressed with the way Tara had played. Proud, too. Mary Dee gestured to him.
“Settle this for us, Jack,” Mary Dee said. “Did Tara dominate or didn’t she?”
“Tara dominated,” he answered.
“Told you so.” Mary Dee smiled at Jack, displaying a charming gap between her front teeth. “You should take Tara out for a drink at O’Malley’s.”
“Don’t pay attention to my friend,” Tara told Jack. “She thinks it’s her duty to arrange my social life.”
“Who can’t use a little help from their friends?” Mary Dee shot back. “You are going to take her out, right, Jack?”
“I was about to ask before you beat me to it.” A corner of Jack’s mouth rose. “But I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes. Doesn’t the whole group go out?”
“We used to, back when most of us were single,” Mary Dee said. “Now it’s hit or miss. Tonight’s a miss. Listen, I’ve gotta run.”
Mary Dee hugged Tara, hanging on to her for an extra few seconds. “Do yourself a favor and go out with the man, Tara,” she whispered into her friend’s ear, loudly enough that Jack heard. To Jack, she said, “Hope I’ll be seeing a lot more of you, Jack.”
“You, too,” Jack said.
Mary Dee picked up her flip-flops and took off through the sand, hurrying to catch up to one of her teammates. The rest of the crowd had also dispersed, leaving Jack and Tara alone on the beach.
“Well, that sure was embarrassing,” Tara said, brushing back some stray hairs that had come loose from her ponytail. “Please don’t feel obligated to take me out.”
“Okay.” Jack rubbed his chin. “Then how do you feel about coming back to my place to see my etchings?”
Amusement played about her lips. “You have etchings?”
“I might,” he said slowly. “Except I’m not really sure what etchings are.”
“Maybe another time,” Tara said, laughing. Even in the dim light he could see the sparkle that came into her eyes. “On second thought, I believe I will take you up on that drink.”
He felt his face split into a wide smile. “Chalk one up for the good guys.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, pal. It’s only a drink.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” He reached out and touched her cheek, mostly because he couldn’t stop himself. “But when I was smiling, I was thinking about the ‘maybe another time.’ I really like the sound of that maybe.”
She let him keep his hand exactly where it was and smiled, too. “It doesn’t take much to make you happy, does it?”
He elevated his eyebrows. “Come to my place one day and you’ll find out.”
“C’mon, let’s go to O’Malley’s.” She started for the wooden walkway, probably thinking she’d put an end to the subject. She didn’t know him very well yet. Once she did, she’d discover he finished what he started, even if it was only a conversation.
He fell into step beside her. “I was serious about the invitation.”
“Good.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “Because I was serious about the maybe.”
This time Jack kept the smile to himself. Something had shifted in their relationship since Saturday. Whatever had caused the shift wasn’t important.
The important thing was that he was finally making progress with Tara.
* * *
TARA SAT ACROSS FROM Jack a short time later in a booth at O’Malley’s, trying not to stare at him. Even though the dinner hour was over, the pub was doing a fair bit of business. Jack, however, was by far the most interesting customer.
Of course, he’d also held that distinction Friday night when the place was packed.
What a difference a few days made. Now that she knew for certain that she wasn’t Hayley Cooper, she could finally stop viewing him as a threat and get to know him as a man.
A man who was intensely appealing.
Goose bumps broke out on her arms even though she’d thrown a light athletic jacket over her sleeveless top. Thinking about how appealing Jack was reminded Tara that Mary Dee had urged her once to describe what she was looking for in a man.
Integrity. Kindness. A sense of humor. A way with kids. An active lifestyle.
Jack had all those traits and more wrapped up in a sexy six-foot-two package. She liked the way he looked, too, from his square chin to his chocolate-brown eyes to the thick hair that sprang back from his widow’s peak.
She also liked that he didn’t wear his clothes tight to show off his lean, muscular build and his broad shoulders. She narrowed her eyes. Was one of his shoulders drooping?
“Did you have the surgery on your right shoulder?” she asked.
“Surgeries,” he corrected. “Two of them. Both on the right shoulder. Why?”
“You’re holding the shoulder funny,” she said. “Like it hurts.”
“You know what they say.” Both corners of his mouth rose, then fell. “No pain, no gain.”
“That saying doesn’t refer to shoulder surgeries. It’s about working out,” Tara said. “What exactly happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It’s a long story,” he said.
She indicated their full mugs of beer. They’d ordered a couple of drafts at the bar, where she greeted some people she knew, and carried them to the booth in the dining room. “I drink slowly, so I’ve got time.”
“Where do you want me to start?” he said.
“How about the first shoulder surgery?”
“That would have been my third year of pro ball,” he said. “I didn’t get drafted until I finished college. Third round by the Cincinnati Kings. I was progressing through the minor league ranks pretty well, even got a call-up to the bigs one September and an invitation the next season to spring training. That’s when the doctor ordered an MRI of my sore shoulder and we found out I had a torn rotator cuff. So I had my first surgery.”
“What went wrong?” she asked.
“At first, nothing. I worked myself into shape and two years later I was back at spring training with a real chance to make the team. They decided they wanted to take a longer look at me and sent me back to the minors. That’s when I reinjured the shoulder and had to go under the knife ag
ain.” He stared down at the beer before gazing back up at her. He looked as if he was trying to smile, but he didn’t manage it. “The Kings cut me loose.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Almost five years ago,” he said. “But I didn’t give up. I took a lot longer rehabbing the shoulder this time, then played for an unaffiliated team before getting signed by the Carolina Stars.”
“I’ve heard of the Stars,” Tara said. “Weren’t they an expansion team in the major leagues a few years back?”
He nodded. “That’s probably why they took a chance on me. The snag was that I’d be strictly a relief pitcher.”
“Did it work out?”
“Surprisingly well,” he said. “I moved from A ball to AA to AAA, then was called up in September. And last year I made it to the show. On opening day, I was on the Carolina Stars roster.”
She leaned forward, eager to hear the rest of the story. The couple in the booth closest to them got up to leave, giving them some privacy. “Did you get into any games?”
“One,” he said. “In that game, I tried to tag a runner out at first base and broke my collarbone in the collision.”
“Your collarbone? I thought the problem was with your shoulder.”
“It is,” he said. “The collarbone healed, but the soreness remained. I didn’t do well in spring training this season and got sent back to AA ball. The problem wouldn’t go away. This time the team doctor figured out I had a torn labrum.”
Tara winced. Volleyball players used the same overhead motion as pitchers to spike and serve. One of the players on her high school team had suffered a similar injury to the one Jack described, then had given up the sport entirely.
“A torn labrum doesn’t regenerate, does it?” she asked.
“I’ve come back from injury before. I can do it again,” he said with a stubborn tilt to his chin. She noticed that he didn’t answer the question.
“Will you have a third surgery?”
“No. There’s a school of thought that physical therapy is better than surgery for torn labrums. That’s why I hired Art Goodnight. I’m working on strengthening the other muscles in my shoulder.”
The Truth About Tara Page 16
