The Secret Hour

by Luanne Rice

  The crowd joined in, calling his name.

  “You can do it, O'Rourke! Go, go, go!”

  Teddy scored, and Shoreline went ahead, 2–1. Kate pumped her fists in the air, shouting with glee. That morning, returning from her walk along the bluff with Bonnie, she'd found a note signed by Teddy, tucked under her windshield wiper and asking her “if she had nothing better to do,” to come to the game. She had planned to check out of the inn, head up the coast to Rhode Island, and broaden her search for Willa. But Teddy's request had touched her heart so completely, she'd decided to postpone her departure.

  “Better to do?” she'd asked Teddy as he'd run by, taking the field. “This is the best offer I've had since coming to Connecticut!”

  Now, still cheering his goal, she felt someone tap her arm. Bonnie let out a short, friendly yelp. A woman stood there, slim and blond, wearing a tight ski-suit-looking outfit. Her lips were full, shiny with gloss, her eyes made up in stylish shades of beige and slate. The only blight on her perfect face was her tiny nose, flaming red from the cold.

  “Hi, there,” the woman said, backing off slightly from the dog.

  “Hello,” Kate said, smiling. “She's friendly,” she added.

  “Do I . . . know you?” the woman asked, totally ignoring Bonnie's tail-wagging hello.

  “I don't think so,” Kate began, but her voice caught: Could this woman have met Willa, mistaken Kate for her sister? “Do I remind you of someone?”

  “I'm not sure,” the woman said, laughing. “People always remind me of someone else. But I heard you cheering for Teddy O'Rourke.”

  “Yes, the team hero.” Kate smiled.

  “How do you know Teddy?”

  Kate was taken aback by the woman's directness.

  “Well, I sort of know his father.”

  “Oh, Johnny. We're pals from way back. Are you a personal friend? Or a client?”

  “Neither,” Kate said, feeling herself close off. The woman was staring at her with a hungry grin, as if she wanted to jump inside her skin and find out what she was doing with John O'Rourke. Although the woman wore several rings, none of them looked like a wedding band. Did she think Kate was intruding on the local single-man territory?

  “Well, whatever. I'm Sally Carroll. It's nice you're here for Teddy. Theresa—his mother—was my best friend. She never missed a game. That's my son—number thirty-two. Bert and Teddy have been friends since ‘Mommy and Me.' And Theresa and I date back to high school—we were all in the same crowd.”

  “I'm sorry . . . you lost your friend,” Kate said.

  Sally nodded. “Yes, it was very unexpected. Well . . . nice talking to you. You know, you really do remind me of someone.”

  “My sister was in town,” Kate said, her pulse quickening. “Maybe you met her? She stayed at the East Wind. . . .”

  Sally smiled. “Like I said, everyone looks like someone else to me. . . .”

  Kate opened her mouth to say more, but Sally hurried away. Going straight to a cluster of other mothers, she began to talk in a low voice, so Kate couldn't hear. Still, by the way the women looked over, she knew that Sally was spreading the word, that there was a stranger in town watching Teddy O'Rourke play soccer.

  When she looked up, to see Teddy passing the ball downfield, she caught sight of a man wearing a Shoreline High windbreaker, watching—not the soccer team, but her. Tall and thin, in his thirties, with dark eyes and short curly hair, he frowned in Kate's direction, as if, like Sally Carroll, he was trying to place her.

  At halftime, when the teams gathered round the benches to drink water and strategize, Teddy ran over to Kate.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, breathless. Then, bending down to pet the Scottie, “You have a dog?”

  “Bonnie. She's my sister's.”

  “Good dog, Bonnie.”

  “Great first half, Teddy,” she said. “I'm really glad I saw you score.”

  “Me, too.”

  Kate wanted to ask where his father was, but she noticed a deep sadness in Teddy's eyes that she recognized from Willa. When her sister was little, no matter how hard Kate had tried to get away from college or work, Willa had sometimes had to go to field hockey, glee club, and art shows on her own.

  “He'd be here if he could,” Kate heard herself saying.

  “I know.”

  “He's a big-time lawyer,” she said. “Even dads with jobs half as important as his have to work during the day.”

  “My mom used to come,” he said.

  “I know. Sally Carroll told me.”

  Teddy's eyes narrowed. He seemed to shiver, looking over at the group of mothers—all watching him and Kate.

  “They wonder who you are,” he said.

  “Well, it's a small town.”

  “Yeah,” Teddy said. Just then, they saw the mothers turn their heads as one, and Kate spotted Teddy's coach coming their way.

  “Hey, O'Rourke—better hydrate if you want to have a good second half.”

  “Okay, Mr. Jenkins,” Teddy said.

  Jenkins? Wasn't that the name of Kate's hosts, Felicity and Barkley? Kate was about to ask, when the coach crossed his arms across his chest and gave her a cute, crooked smile.

  “A new fan,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know most of the moms around here. You must be . . . an aunt?”

  “No,” Kate said, smiling. “Just a friend.”

  “I'm Hunt Jenkins . . . and you're . . . help me out.”

  “My name is Kate Harris.”

  “Well, nice to meet you, Kate. Any friend of Teddy's is a friend of mine.”

  “Yes,” Kate said, flashing a big smile. “Your star player!”

  “Yup. Best forward since my cousin Caleb used to play.”

  “Caleb Jenkins?” she asked, remembering how John had mentioned the name—the client who'd borrowed the motorboat. “Then you must be related to Felicity.”

  “She's my sister-in-law. How do you know her?”

  “I'm staying at the East Wind,” Kate said, aware of all the questions she'd answered that day, of how the locals looked after each other. It was the same in Chincoteague, and for a moment she longed for the ease and anonymity of life in the city, of Andrew's world in Washington. She'd be returning home soon . . . just a few more stops in New England, and then she'd be back in D.C.

  “Well, well. Small world.”

  Suddenly the man with the dark curls and Shoreline windbreaker came walking over. Kate saw Sally wave him over, but he just threw her a smile and kept walking.

  “Hi, Hunt,” he said. “Who's your friend?”

  “I'm Kate Harris,” she said.

  “Peter Davis. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” she said.

  “She's not a mom or an aunt,” Hunt explained. “Just a soccer fan and a friend of Teddy O'Rourke's.”

  “Great . . . listen, Hunt—got a second? I've got a great second half strategy, something from my soccer days at Hotchkiss . . .”

  “Any help gladly taken.” Hunt grinned. “My job depends on winning!”

  “Take care, Kate,” Peter said. “Nice to meet you. Maybe you'll wind up at the Witch's Brew later . . . Friday and Saturday nights, there's a band.”

  “Yes,” Hunt Jenkins said. “Save me a dance, Kate.”

  “I don't think . . .” Kate began, blushing as she felt his eyes on her body.

  “Hey, time!” one of the soccer officials yelled, and Hunt and Peter hurried toward the sidelines to confer on game tactics.

  Both benches began to empty out, and someone in the crowd squeezed an air horn. The cheerleaders, dressed in their Halloween masks and pointy black hats, began to dance on the sidelines, in anticipation.

  Teddy grinned, reaching his fist out. Willa used to do the same thing, so Kate clinked knuckles with her young friend, and watched him take the field. Hunt Jenkins smiled, walking backward, but she ignored him, and he eventually turned away.

  A woman behind Kat
e was talking to her friend. “Which one's the lawyer's son?” she asked.

  “That tall boy—number twenty-two.”

  “It's not his fault, but still—I wonder if his father sees the unfairness of his children being free to enjoy life while those girls lie buried . . .”

  “I know—it's disgusting to me, thinking of Greg Merrill alive and well while Toni Moore is dead. She used to run on that track, right over there. She was such a fine athlete . . .”

  “Oh, she was. She made our town proud. John O'Rourke ought to be ashamed of himself, working on behalf of her killer. Talk about a warped set of priorities . . . no wonder Theresa did what she did. I can't imagine being close to someone who thinks like he does.”

  The two women clucked, and Kate felt her back stiffen.

  “Did you hear about the brick through his window? Look at his son out there—playing soccer, running in the sun. It's almost criminal, when you think of those girls, of the unfairness.”

  “What's unfair—” Kate snapped, turning around fast, thinking of Willa, thinking of Teddy, her heart in a knot. She felt anger exploding, and she stared straight into the shocked faces of two suburban women. “—And what's criminal is taking any of this out on his children. They didn't do anything. They're as innocent as the victims.”

  “Who are you?” one of the women asked, anger in her eyes.

  “Their friend,” Kate said, backing away, watching Teddy take the ball down the field. Her heart was racing, as if she were running toward the goal herself. She had seen the broken glass, the blood on John's face, the terror in Maggie's and Teddy's eyes. The whole town was talking about the O'Rourke family, and the kids had to know.

  Teddy, at least, was a teenager, and probably heard things about his parents. Kate's stomach clenched. The women behind her continued to whisper, and Kate moved away.

  John had heard the expression “move heaven and earth” his whole life, but he'd never actually done it until today. He rushed his associates through reports of their research projects—one in charge of medical testimony, another whose memo on change-of-venue would certainly make its way into the appeal. He spoke with two psychiatrists, arranged interviews the following week, and postponed a visit to the prison.

  Swinging by his father's house, he picked up Maggie and Brainer, and made it to the field just as the second half got underway. He parked on the grass, and walked briskly toward the Shoreline side as Maggie and the dog bounded ahead. Teddy had the ball; he was dribbling fast and furiously, setting up the shot.

  “You've got it, Ted,” John called. “Shoot!”

  “Teddddyyyyyyyyyyyy!” Maggie yelled.

  The crowd jumped up and down, and John reeled with pride, knowing the excitement was all for his son. John had played soccer at Shoreline and, later, at Yale, and he knew how great it felt to hear everyone shouting your name. He hoped that Teddy could distinguish his among the voices, and he felt a sharp stab, remembering how few games his own busy lawyer father had made it to.

  Teddy passed, his teammate held up as Teddy tore into place. The pass came, Teddy angled it in, and the Shoreline side erupted as their team went up 3–1.

  “Hello, John.”

  John felt her arms around his neck, her lips on his cheek before he saw who it was: Sally Carroll.

  “Hi, Sally.”

  “Quite a chip off the old block. I seem to remember his old man pulling a move just like that—scoring when Shoreline needed it most.”

  “Long time ago,” John said, looking past her shoulder to the man she'd been standing with. Peter Davis, a friend of Teddy's coach; John knew he had bought a house in Point Heron, and he'd heard that Sally had started dating him during her separation. The whole idea of dating—of trying to connect, trust another person again—gave John such a strong reaction that he felt a shiver go all the way down his spine.

  “Yes, well, we do date back . . . old friend,” Sally said.

  “Accent on the ‘old,' ” John said.

  “Don't let me hear you say that,” Sally said, her fingers resting lightly on his arm. “You're just tired, I'm sure, after all you've been through. How are things, by the way?”

  Her eyes were liquid, melting. John felt her gaze boring into him, and he looked away. His breath picked up—a sort of natural reaction to Sally's beauty, her sexual intensity . . . but she'd been Theresa's best friend, her divorce wasn't final, Peter Davis was watching them, and he'd never been attracted to her in that way, anyway. John glanced down at her again, wished he could just let his guard down and tell her—really tell her—how things were.

  “They're fine,” he said.

  “Hmmm,” she said. “That why you have dark circles under your eyes? Why Jillie Wilcox told me her mother said the glazier truck was back again this week?”

  “A brick through the window,” John said. “Occupational hazard.”

  “Well, the crowd is out for blood,” Sally said. “See the way they're all watching you?”

  “As long as they leave my kids alone, I can take it.”

  “Who takes care of you, Johnny?” Sally asked, touching his arm again. “While you're taking care of two kids, the house, those horrible clients?”

  John's jaw tightened. When she put it like that, reduced everything to a few words, his life really did sound grim. He shivered in the penetrating sea wind, focused on watching his son play soccer. Teddy played defense as well as offense, and he stayed on his man, darting in, trying to steal the ball away.

  “Who's the mystery woman?” came Sally's voice, breaking into John's concentration.

  “What are you talking about, Sally?”

  “Plain Jane over there—cheering for your son as if she was his mother. Your dog seems to know her quite well.”

  John followed the direction of her finger as she pointed, and gazed straight at Kate Harris. She was staring, bright-eyed, at the field, hands clasped as if in prayer, but probably to keep them warm, appearing rapt and enthralled by the game. She wore the green jacket she'd worn on their walk the other night, and as Brainer romped with Bonnie, she crouched down to kiss his nose.

  John smiled in spite of himself—first reaction to seeing her. But his second reaction came fast and hard, a train slamming through a tunnel. What was Kate Harris doing at Teddy's game?

  “Excuse me, will you, Sally?”

  “Of course,” he heard Sally's voice over his shoulder as he strode down the sideline. Brainer tussled with Bonnie, and both dogs broke free to circle him as he approached Kate. The sky was steel gray, the trees were covered with bright yellow and orange leaves, and her eyes, as she turned to watch him, were filled with warmth and hope.

  “Brainer remembers me,” she said.

  “Seems to,” John replied, his jaw unbelievably tense and hurting.

  “Or maybe it's Bonnie,” she said. “I think they're true friends. Actually, I think they're mad about each other. Have you noticed how—”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Hmm,” she said, lowering her eyes.

  The freight train tore through his chest. It crashed along his veins, through his blood vessels. It hurt like hell, smashing tissue and bone. This woman, this small, pretty, open—and she wasn't a “plain Jane” at all; it was just that women like Sally, like Theresa, would never get her quiet beauty—this woman was here at Teddy's game, and she didn't belong.

  “That's not an answer,” he snapped. “Tell me what the hell you're doing here.”

  “Watching Teddy play,” she said.

  “How the— Don't lie to me, okay? You knew I'd come, and you want something from me. You think I forgot our last meeting?”

  “I didn't know you'd come,” she said softly.

  “Come on! What other reason—”

  “I don't think even Teddy knew you'd come,” she said. Now, raising her eyes and smiling out at the field, connecting with Teddy's gaze—as John looked over, he saw his son, beaming from ear to ear, his cheeks bright red, so intent on catch
ing John's attention that he missed a pass.

  “Get it back, Teddy,” John shouted as the Riverdale left wing intercepted the ball and wheeled around toward the goal.

  “Go, Teddy!” Kate called, waving her fist.

  “He lost it,” John said, as the wing passed the ball to Riverdale's center. The shot was set up, and the big kid scored for Riverdale and the opposing side went crazy.

  “They're still up three–two,” Kate said helpfully.

  “You're implying that goal was my fault? That Teddy was so distracted by seeing me here? Is that what you're saying?”

  “Actually,” Kate said, her voice cool but her eyes still warm, “that's what you're saying. I'm sure you know your son better than I do.”

  “So,” John said, his blood on fire, a harbor covered with burning oil, flames licking all the bulkheads, docks, piers . . . all the tissue in his body boiling over with fury and frustration, “Teddy screwed up because I came? Is that what you mean?”

  “First of all, he didn't screw up,” Kate said. “That Riverdale guy stole the ball from him—it was a blatant case of offsides, or whatever it's called . . .”

  “He wasn't offsides,” John said. “The Riverdale guy just happened to be standing there when Teddy let the ball go through his legs. You don't know anything about soccer.”

  “That's true,” Kate said. “But never say I'm not willing to learn something new. I'm loving this game.” She jumped up and down again, eyes on the field, pointing as Teddy received the pass, took the ball masterfully down the field ahead of his team, and got into place for a goal.

  “Go, Teddy! Kick it in! Take the shot!” John heard himself saying. He wasn't a parent who shouted out instructions, but he was with Teddy all the way.

  “You can do it,” Kate called. “Go!”

  “C'mon, O'Rourke,” the voices roared. If John closed his eyes, he might have believed it was him they were cheering for, but he didn't want to shut his eyes, not even for a second. He stared at his son, hand raised, calling the play, passing the ball—score!

  The crowd exploded.

  John leapt into the air. He shouted till his lungs hurt. Kate jumped up and down beside him, dancing in place, and he could feel her heat, her excitement. His arms wanted to grab her, hug her out of joy, out of triumph for Teddy—and out of relief for having been here for a big moment.