Forever (Eternity #1)

by Allyson Young

  Sandra sighed and blinked back the tears shining in her big brown eyes. “I’ll miss you, honey. It won’t be the same.”

  “I’ll call you, and you can let me know when you get some time off. We’ll meet somewhere and catch up. Okay?”

  “What about when you, uh, deliver?”

  Amy dissolved into tears again and impatiently wiped them away with the backs of her hands, her cheeks already sore from the scalding salt. “We’ll see what we can work out.” She was terrified about that day in the future, but there was too much else to do first, and a long time to get there. She hefted her purse, her savings tucked inside with the laptop, and moved to the door.

  Sandra wrapped her arms over her chest, hands cupping her elbows. Her thin, pleasant face was drawn with anxiety, and not a little fear, the dark hair such contrast to her pallor. Her eyes were full of tears.

  “I’ll be fine, Sandra. Know it. Amy Copeland survives. And I have another life to take care of—find a doctor, take vitamins, all that stuff.”

  Sandra attempted a watery smile and Amy returned it.

  “I’ll call you.”

  The drive to the next city over had been made on autopilot. As silly as it was, Amy would miss her car. Buying foreign hadn’t won her any new friends, and Dean didn’t like the fact the Audi was a convertible, but she loved it. And she could drive it to capacity too, as well as any man. But it was too distinctive and she needed the money. The piece of shit the dealer graced her with was more suitable for a mother-to-be, nondescript, unmemorable, but he assured her it met all safety ratings. And it died half a block from the Restaway Inn, ominous warnings flashing on the dash, shimmers of heated air rising from the engine to curl over the windshield. Amy pulled to the curb and went to find a working phone.

  Fate? Karma? She didn’t know. Didn’t care, although she wouldn’t ignore the possibility. She had walked into the lobby and hadn’t looked back. Harold reposed behind the counter, an older man wearing a neatly pressed, white shirt tucked into dark trousers. His greying hair cut close to his head, a little goatee adding spice to his look. Calm blue-gray eyes surveyed her, but in a “are you a customer or somebody else” manner. Assessing but with no intent. A little name tag, gold letters etched on a white background announced his name.

  “How can I help you?” A kind voice, baritone, still full of strength despite his age. She could recall those kindly words even now, if she didn’t realize their import at the time.

  Amy explained her phone dilemma and Harold stepped up, unbidden. He called somebody named Chaske, and a tall, skinny black man arrived before Amy had time to drink the water Harold pressed on her. She’d struggled up from the depths of a comfortable chair to reach a hand across the coffee table to Chaske. He declined her accompanying him, citing the heat as a deterrent, so she and Harold watched in air-conditioned comfort as Chaske climbed into her new-to-her wheels, then out again to pop the hood. The man didn’t need to mime the bad news. Amy could tell by his stance. Nothing good was under that cloud of black. Shit.

  Ridiculous tears threatened. It was nearly dark and she was exhausted. Only a hundred miles from home and no way to increase that distance unless she took a bus.

  “Don’t you fret, Amy.” Harold knew her full name. She hadn’t dissembled. How could she in the face of his kindness? “Chaske will take the beast away and let you know what’s wrong, give you a quote. You can stay here.”

  Chaske backed his wrecker up to the van and efficiently hooked it up. The vehicle looked sad, discouraged. Much like Amy felt. Being taken in by a used-car salesman was the icing on the cake.

  “Do you have much luggage?”

  Startled, Amy focused on Harold. “None. I was just … passing through.”

  “Where you going?” The first intrusive question, but it was okay. Flight wasn’t a lot of fun, and unless Harold and Chaske had some kind of racket going whereby they bilked people out of shitty old vehicles and rented them a room to murder them later, or worse … she could use some support.

  “I don’t know.” Kind of sounded pathetic, put out there like that. Amy’s breath hitched in her throat. Surely she’d cried enough tears at Sandra’s. Apparently not.

  “Well, how if we have some dinner and talk awhile? I have a phone call to make but that’s pretty much it for the night unless we have people stopping. We still have a couple of open units.”

  “I don’t want to impose.” Amy lifted her purse.

  “You aren’t, Amy. And you’re not okay. My daughter, Louise, would have been about your age when we lost her. Have dinner with an old man.”

  And so it went. Harold ordered dinner from the dinner after ascertaining her favorites—the diner’s limited menu didn’t detract from the fact the food was excellent. While they waited for delivery—Harold had an arrangement with the proprietor, small businesses supporting one another—he placed his call. Amy couldn’t help but overhear and realized he was talking to his wife, Francine, recovering from a surgical procedure. The affection overshadowed the worry in Harold’s voice and his obvious relief that Francine was feeling better even in the short time since he’d visited over lunch was inspiring. It spoke to hope for relationships everywhere, except for Amy’s. Harold regaled Francine with her story and assured his wife Amy was a nice young woman. Like Louise.

  “Francine is worried you’re a scam artist, Amy. But my explanation was sufficient. She can’t wait to meet you.”

  “Uh, I don’t know how long I’ll be here.” In truth, she had been planning to revisit the dealership and have a chat with the little weasel who had not only taken her on the van, but stiffed her insofar as the cash on the Cabriolet went, too. Hindsight. She worried about the hours passing, though, running through her fingers like the sands of proverbial time. And she was so tired.

  “Well, you can’t go anywhere without a vehicle. If you can’t afford a room we’ll work something out.”

  “I can afford a room, Harold.” Boy, who said there were no kind people around anymore? “I just need to travel, put some miles on.”

  Their food arrived, clearly forestalling some curious questions on the tip of Harold’s tongue. The boy bringing in the bags was polite and respectful of Harold who called the kid Beanpole, but introduced him as Sean. Sean was maybe five foot two and kind of square, like a solid box of flesh. But he seemed okay with the nickname, and Amy smiled as cheerfully as she could, calling him Sean.

  Harold didn’t share hers, which was interesting and very discreet.

  “You’ll forgive a curious old man, Amy, but are you in trouble?”

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes. “I’m running away from a relationship, Harold. I’m not in trouble. I promise.” She might be trouble though, might attract it here. Dean balanced both sides of his business, and she rarely was exposed to the less savory one. Like so many women who fancied themselves in love with a bad guy, she’d come to pretend it didn’t matter. But her plan had been to leave as soon as that damn van was repaired.

  “Okay.” And that was it. Harold had left it alone. Amy wanted to explain further but decided to let it lie. The whole experience that day had been surreal and maybe her instincts were playing tricks on her.

  They sat at the coffee table in the welcoming lobby and ate the meatloaf and mashed potatoes with the green beans and gravy on the side in quiet appreciation. The cherry pie with the flaky pastry was like ambrosia and Harold’s quiet moan had Amy smiling around a mouthful, just managing not to emulate him.

  “I’ll give you the key to the unit next to the office. Maybe not as quiet, but we live right behind, so if you need me…” Harold didn’t look at her, packing up the detritus of their meal. “Want one of Francine’s night things?”

  “That’s okay. I’ll manage.” God. So freaking kind.

  “There’s coffee in those single makers in the room, Amy, and if you’re up by seven we’ll have breakfast.”

  “Done.”

  Amy had been up by six-thirty that
following morning. Always a light sleeper, she started at each and every unfamiliar sound, automatically reaching for a large, hard body that wasn’t beside her. Her loneliness and despair caught up to her at some point, her fingers finding the apex of her thighs to search out her clit, seeking something, anything, to help her sleep. It was a lonely, shallow release, nothing like what Dean gave her, and only made things worse. When dawn pushed its pale light around the edges of the curtains, Amy was grateful for the excuse to get out of bed.

  Donning the underwear washed out in the sink and hung to dry from the shower rod, she sniffed her shirt. Her nose wrinkled. It smelled like defunct van air freshener and of emotional angst, but it was all she had. The bath in the incredible tub the night before had eased her stiffness but didn’t work any miracles on her state of mind. She strove to wall off her memories of Dean, surround them with a moat full of resolution to have a future without his bullshit, and raise a healthy, happy child. She decided to believe that fat lie for now and turn it into the truth when she was stronger. Her jeans were okay, but she eschewed her socks, toeing into her shoes barefoot. Running her tongue experimentally over her teeth, Amy decided the first order of the day was a little shopping, toothbrush first on the list. Her stomach rebelled at the very thought of toothpaste, an interesting detail to process.

  Harold was already behind the polished counter in the lobby, now wearing a shirt in a pale shade of blue, with charcoal grey pants. He smiled, and Amy beamed back, fully aware of the pretense, but determined to try. Her lips trembled with the strain and his face sobered.

  “Pancakes and bacon okay?”

  “Sounds great.”

  Harold nodded as if her reply hadn’t sounded thin and shrill. “I asked for a carafe of coffee and some tea.”

  She sat in the same chair and leafed through a newspaper and a few magazines while Harold busied himself behind the desk. Breakfast arrived, courtesy of a young girl, clearly getting ready for school, backpack weighing her small frame down. She, too, greeted Harold with respect and looked at her curiously. Amy nodded and got up to take the bag of food and lay the items out on the coffee table.

  “We normally eat in our suite, Amy, so if you’d prefer … ”

  “No, this is fine.” No way was she presuming any further. She had to get moving, and this man was too good to be true. Convincing herself that her emotional walls were partially rebuilt, Amy wasn’t taking any chances, adding things like the kindness of strangers to the load. There was nothing left in her for payback.

  The food was every bit as good as the meal the day before, the pancakes made from scratch, the bacon crisp. Coffee, laced with cream and a little sugar was wonderful for about half a cup before Amy rethought it, both because of the caffeine and because her stomach hitched little warnings. She supposed it was time to revamp her diet.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  She swallowed the last of her pancakes to answer Harold. “I design websites and I can do tech support. Pretty much self-employed, but I contract out.” It was the perfect job. She could work from anywhere, anyplace, anytime. It had fit around Dean’s erratic schedule, not that she’d needed to work. Good thing she kept up her skills, considering.

  “So you’re good with the public, can follow a system, routine?”

  “Uh huh.” Where was this going?

  “Want a job?”

  Amy sat straight and blinked. She could feel her lashes fluttering wildly as she tried to process. “Job?”

  “I need someone to keep an eye on the desk while I go visit Francine. And she’s gonna need some time to recuperate, maybe two weeks or so, once she’s home in a few days. I can’t find anyone to spell me except for a little time here and there.”

  “But you seem to have contacts all over,” Amy protested.

  Harold nodded. “And they all have small businesses, too, or are taking care of grandkids and don’t have a lot of time to spare. You can live here until Francine is on her feet and by then the coast should be clear.”

  “Coast?” Amy heard herself inanely repeating after him. “Harold. I’m not running from the police or even an abusive boyfriend. I’m not. And if you think that, why on earth would you want me to work here?”

  “I believe you about not being in trouble, at least not the kind you’re saying. But you’re in trouble, anyhow. You hurt, I can see it, and I trust my instincts.”

  Blowing out a breath, Amy sank back into the comfortable chair. Working as a desk clerk for a couple of weeks. Maybe a month. She could probably do it, and get her head straight, too. If Harold had read her so easily, she was a mess. Maybe she could use the time to regroup and plan. Besides, she had no wheels, and it was now too late to backtrack to the dealership. Her instincts were sharpening, maybe just from paranoia, but Dean had a long reach considering his resources and contacts.

  “Point me in the direction of a store where I can pick up some clothes and essentials.”

  “So you’ll do it?” Harold sounded ecstatic.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can and you can show me the ropes. Make some notes about anything complicated while I’m gone.” Having a purpose felt kind of invigorating, not to mention distracting. She certainly had no time to wallow in the what-ifs.

  Harold made her take his car, a big boat, meticulously maintained, and Amy bought enough clothes to carry her for awhile, using some cash from the sale of her Audi. Nothing extravagant, but two pairs of serviceable black pants with elastic waistbands, something she didn’t realize were available for purchase. Tailored shirts in white, blue and pink, all with darts to open later for extra stomach space, would serve as a desk clerk uniform. Basic toiletries, underwear, socks, a pair of sneakers and a loose jacket. A cell phone charger for when she was ready to call Sandra, and she was set. The little mall had everything and she made a mental note of the location.

  A tall, red-haired woman wheeled a cart from the room Amy decided to consider her own when she returned. She parked the Mercury in the closest visitor’s slot so Harold could back out with ease. Upon closer inspection, the red hair most definitely came out of a box, and the face it surrounded was lined and tired. However, bright green eyes twinkled her way. “Hi. You’ll be the new desk clerk! I’m Joyce. Nice thing you’re doing for Harold. I couldn’t get it all done by myself.”

  “I’m Amy. Nice to meet you. Glad to help.”

  “I have a couple more units. See you later.”

  Amy put her purchases in her room, pausing only to change into one of her new shirts and a pair of those black pants, before making her way to the lobby to be trained as motel desk clerk extraordinaire.

  True to his word, Harold left her in charge the same day while he was at the hospital, and upon Francine’s return home, Amy stepped in until Francine was back on her feet. Their vacation came hard on the heels of that, and by then, Amy was well established in Harold and Francine’s little community of friends. The van wasn’t beyond repair, but would take considerable time, because Chaske refused to take her money, simply saying he would work on it in his spare moments. Amy suspected he was eking things out, timing it until his friends were back from holidays, but she would have stayed anyhow.

  ****

  Amy will be coming back. No worries. Famous fucking last words. Dean pushed both hands through his hair and vaguely registered he needed a haircut before he looked the wild man he was struggling with internally. His business had survived Burnett’s attempted takeover, and the defense had been bloodless, thanks to the careful planning. Everyone executed their deal flawlessly over the intervening weeks. Except the man he’d sought for years hadn’t shown his hand and it appeared Saul Burnett had moved on to a different city, let alone a different neighborhood. Dean couldn’t figure it out—either total failure or Burnett’s boss had fallen back to wait for a better opportunity. It was getting fucking tiresome.

  But, far worse, Enrico was certain he got everything from Sandra, yet there wasn’t anything to get, really. Amy had
gone to say goodbye, said she’d call, and hadn’t yet done so. She just vanished. Any number of calls to her phone had gone to voicemail, until the box was full. Nothing. It was turned off, the battery pulled or Dean could have traced the GPS.

  Her car turned up one city over, in a used car lot, and the junker she bought with a small part of the proceeds had never been registered. She paid attention. Amy knew the dealer plates would get her some distance before she needed to register the van and get insurance. But she didn’t. Or, if she had, she didn’t use her own name, and dropped right below the radar. Dean couldn’t find her, anywhere. At first he hadn’t understood why she was hiding so carefully from him. Until today.

  She’d emptied her bank account, not a princely sum, but enough to move clear across the country if she chose. She’d need a job—even doing web design meant paperwork, and the government had no record of her, either. It was insane. He put his best man on it and hired a better tracker from the outside but the days went by, followed by weeks. It was eating him up inside. He bought the damn car back. Amy loved her Audi and it was least he could do. It was parked in the garage, waiting for her to come home.

  The place still faintly smelled like her, fresh and grassy, and Randy hadn’t lied. Amy left everything but her purse and laptop. And Bogs. If that stupid little, moth-eaten, battered stuffed toy had remained, he might not feel so hopeless, believing she’d return. It felt so fucking final. Finding the bracelet was just the icing on his cake of pain. Dean was haunted by stuff at every turn. Her clothes still hung in the closet beside his own, a drawer in his dresser dedicated solely to her underwear and those nightgowns he wouldn’t let her wear to his bed. He didn’t let her wear anything to his bed. He’d have given her the whole goddamn dresser in retrospect, both closets, because that one drawer was jammed tight with lace and satin.