by Susan Rohrer
Zoring backed against the window frame, trembling.
Clay jabbed the gun in Zoring’s direction. “Heaven or hell. What’s it going to be?”
Zoring threw his head back. “I don’t know.” He crumbled, sliding down the wall behind him.
Joe looked on in horror as the chopper swung into its newly cleared position. The sharp shooter raised his rifle as he radioed the ground. “Subject in sites.”
“Take him,” the SWAT captain ordered.
Joe dove for his brother. “Clay!”
The shot rang out just as Clay started to turn. A bullet ripped into Clay’s side. Clay gaped at the wound, in shock. He dropped the revolver and slumped into Joe’s arms.
“Subject down. Subject down.”
Joe touched his earpiece. “Back off! He’s hit. He’s hit.”
“Stand down,” the captain ordered. “Repeat. Stand down.”
Joe cradled Clay in his arms.
Clay looked up, his eyes flashing with fear. “Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” Joe promised. “I’m here.” He pressed his fingers into the wound. Already, there was so much blood.
Clay gasped for breath. “I’m not...I’m not ready to die... God hates me.”
“Shhh... Try to be still.”
Clay shook uncontrollably. “I’m gonna burn.”
Joe brushed the hair from Clay’s face. “No, don’t go there, Clay. Don’t. Just say you’re sorry.”
“Yeah, right...” All too quickly, the life was draining out of Clay. Gurgles choked his words. “Sure...and every revolting thing I...ever did...it just goes away?”
“So I’m told.”
Clay opened his mouth, fighting to speak. Blood ran down his cheek. Then a whisper. So faint. A prayer. “I’m sorry... for everything.”
Tears soaked Joe’s cheeks. He glanced across the deck at Zoring.
The old man was weeping, right along with him. “This is all my fault. Forgive me.”
Laurel’s words drifted across Joe’s mind. Until that moment, the idea of forgiving Zoring, it had never even occurred to him. It was the last thing he could deal with now.
Joe turned back to his dying brother. “I’m sorry, too, Clay. I’m so sorry.” Joe leaned down to kiss Clay’s battered cheek.
Clay’s lips parted. Ever so softly, he nodded. A stillness came over Clay. It enveloped him as his chest rose and fell one last time.
Never in his life had Joe known his brother to be still, to lie so contentedly in his care. Gone was all the restlessness, the struggle, all that wistful longing to be understood, that yearning to be known and loved.
And Clay was loved. Though Joe had never once said it or even realized it before, it was still so very true. Inexplicably, he loved his brother. He knew it from the depths of his soul, from the ache tearing at his heart in that final, wrenching goodbye.
nineteen
Shana Fischer stood at the doorway to Frank’s walk-in closet. So many beautiful shirts and suits, tailored so handsomely. He’d looked so dashing in the charcoal one, the one she’d bought for his election night gala. How proud she’d been to stand at his side that evening. Strange how such a stunning victory had been eclipsed by such a devastating loss.
The scent of Frank’s aftershave mingled with that musky aroma that was so distinctly his. Happier times glimmered through her mind. Their passionate romance, their wedding day, the campaign, the hard-fought battle they’d won for full custody of Grace.
Mostly, though, it was the ordinary stuff of life with Frank that she would miss. Waking up in his strong arms. Sipping their morning lattes together. The sweet nothings that made up their days. It had all added up to what she’d always wanted, ever since losing her parents so young. Finally, she had belonged to another human being. Body, heart, and soul.
At least that’s what she’d thought.
How had it all crumbled into absolute ashes before her? How could a man who seemed so devoted have betrayed her this way? None of it made sense, not with the man she knew.
She ran her fingers along his cashmere coat. Whatever could she do with all his things now? Perhaps there was a charity, one of those places that helped parolees like Tom Zoring get a fresh start in life, after they’d paid their debt to society. The church had been so supportive of him, but others, they weren’t always so fortunate.
The hinge of the bedroom door creaked. Sensible flats tapped toward her. Helen.
Shana stepped back from the closet. “Helen, I was just wondering if you’d order some wardrobe boxes for me.”
“Right away, Mrs. Fischer. I know just the place to call. And this...” Helen reached into her pocket and drew out an envelope. “It was with the morning mail.”
Shana sighed. Another sympathy card. There had been so many. Thousands. They were all starting to run together. The ones with the stock sentiments were so saccharine, so impersonal. And as hard as some had tried to scratch out a few lines, no one seemed to know what to say. Was Frank really in a better place, as so many supposed?
Shana drew the closet door over till the latch clicked into place. “I don’t think I can face it right now, Helen. Just put it with the other cards. I’ll get to it one of these days.”
Helen tapped the envelope lightly against her wrist. “I just thought you’d want to know about this one. It was hand delivered, slipped through the slot at the gate.” Bittersweet understanding shone in her eyes. “It’s from Laurel.”
Shana brushed a weary hand over her mouth. So much drama. It was all so much. Too much. She could feel her blood pressure rising, just at the thought of Laurel and the turbulent history between them.
Helen turned. She set the card down on the dressing table and headed toward the bedroom door. “I’ll go call about those boxes for you.”
Shana dropped her head. That was so like Helen. So respectful, so gentle, yet so quietly forceful. All at the same time. Oh, to have that kind of strength.
She gazed at the envelope, lying there across the room. What could Laurel have to say that would make her feel any better? If anything, Laurel would probably make her feel even worse than she already did.
One thing was for sure. Waiting wouldn’t make Laurel’s card disappear. She could throw it away. She could toss it into the wastebasket and be done with it. Yes, that was the thing to do.
Shana strode to the vanity and picked up the envelope. It was marked Personal and Confidential, in Laurel’s hand. No wonder Helen hadn’t presumed to open it, along with the rest of the mail.
Shana sunk onto the vanity’s seat cushion. If she knew Laurel, this was probably an appeal about seeing Grace more often. Now that Laurel had been cleared of suspicion in Frank’s death, the judge would review custody soon. And Frank’s will. The will would certainly come into play. Howard would see to that.
Wearily, she turned the envelope over. The longer she waited to open that card, the longer the unknown of it would wield power over her. The longer thoughts of Laurel and whatever she had written would occupy her mind.
Time to get this over with. Skim it and toss it. She shoved a fingernail under the flap. Her jaw tightened as she yanked out the card and opened it. Her eyes fell on hand-penned words:
I owe you an apology, Shana.
What a terrible time you’ve endured. Though I never intended to, I realize I’ve made it worse. That dream I had—the one I spoke to Frank about, just before he died—I thought I’d seen him with another woman. As it turns out, I was wrong.
You may have been wondering what happened that night—why Frank was at his office at all. I wouldn’t have known myself if Clay Hardisty hadn’t told me. (It’s one good thing that came from that part of this tragedy.)
Clay had phoned Frank with a last minute ultimatum: either meet him alone at 2:00 a.m. or, come morning, he’d fight Tom Zoring’s parole in full Marilyn regalia. Frank hopped the last plane back to make that meeting. Nothing more. He was there waiting for Clay when he called to ask me to hold my su
pport check briefly. It was right after I’d had that foreboding dream.
As you grieve, I hope it will be of some comfort to know this. When we spoke that last time, Frank was adamant that he was not seeing another woman. In fact, his final words before hanging up on me were, “Don’t bother me with this nonsense. I love my wife.”
With sincere sorrow,
Laurel
Shana clutched an arm around her waist. Rocking, she reread the final paragraph. Again and again, she retraced it, until the truth of it sank to the bottom of her soul.
Frank had been faithful to her. He had only been trying to help secure Tom Zoring’s parole, just as he’d promised her as he left for the convention. Frank had loved her with his whole heart, just as she’d loved him.
All the way to the end.
Sobs buckled Shana. Streams welled from her innermost being. For the first time since Frank’s passing, she laid her head down between her arms and shook with unreserved grief.
Laurel gazed across a hillside cemetery. The sky—it was so gray, as if all of heaven were grieving along with her. Crosses, tombstones, and mausoleums stretched out before her. Row after row, as far as the eye could see. Mourners gathered around a gravesite to her right as a rabbi lifted up Hebrew prayers. Joe was not the only one setting a loved one to rest on this day.
Respectfully, she set out across the grass easement to the east. Grave markers caught her eye as she passed. Some weathered by time, some freshly attended with bouquets. A devoted married couple. Such a young child. So many lives. So many epitaphs. Frank’s was out there somewhere. There wouldn’t be a stone yet. Just a brass marker, noting the breadth of his days.
Was Frank really gone? It was still so very hard to believe. She could only hope that Grace was coming to accept it. In just a few days she could schedule a visit. She could wrap her arms around her baby girl. They could grieve her father together.
Laurel shielded her eyes from the sun. There, in the distance, stood a man, alone except for a uniformed worker cranking a mechanism, lowering a casket into a grave.
Joe.
Laurel’s eyes brimmed at the sight of him. He was tending to his brother, all the way to the end. So like Joe to do it this way. There were no mourners, not even someone to officiate. Clay hadn’t had any friends. Not really. And what friends Joe had, apparently they’d been told there was no need to come. Just like he’d told her.
Ever so quietly, Laurel approached Clay’s gravesite. Wordlessly, she stood at Joe’s side.
Joe barely glanced her way. He looked more rested, but pain etched his face. “I just wish I could have saved him. Somehow.”
“Saving him...that wasn’t your job, Joe. But he is safe now, and I think you did your part.”
“I was just...” He shrugged. “Truth is, I was only trying to help him feel better. Not so afraid to die.”
Lightly, she brushed his arm. “And you did help him. More than you know.”
Joe still shook his head. “You really think—after everything—one last second ‘I’m sorry’ and, just like that, he’s in?”
She nodded. “Kind of like the thief on the cross. That’s grace for you. Audacious stuff.”
He fixed his eyes on Clay’s casket. “That day we first met in the park? I told you I didn’t believe.”
“But you do.”
Joe drew in a contemplative breath. “Yeah. I do. I guess I always did. I’ve just been so angry. For so long.” He gazed into the clouds. “I do want what you have, Laurel. I want to move past this. I just don’t know what to say after all this time.”
“That’s okay. I don’t always either.”
He looked mildly surprised.
A soft smile crossed her lips. “As often as I tend to I blow it, I usually start off with an apology of some sort. He’s pretty good at carrying the conversation after that.”
His reaction was so slight, and so very wry. It barely cracked through the gloom of his face. “Okay.”
“Okay?” She searched his face. “You’re sure?”
Ever so subtly, he nodded. He extended his hand toward hers. “Sure as I’ll ever be.”
She laced her fingers with his. Together, they broke the silence that had persisted so very long. She heard nothing from the heavens, nothing but the song of a meadowlark, mingling with the murmurs rising from Joe’s lips as he finally made peace with his Maker.
A vision unveiled before her, a single picture, so radiant and golden. She could only hope that somehow, Joe could see it, too. There, standing at the end of a very long road was a joyous father—arms stretched wide—in welcome to his long lost son.
twenty
Days had passed since Laurel had seen Joe at the cemetery. He’d asked for that time to grieve, to begin to set Clay’s affairs in order.
Now, what he needed was comfort food and the quietness of her company. She turned down the gas under her chowder pot and checked the clock on the stove.
He would be here soon.
As impossible as it all seemed, he wasn’t coming over to work on the story. He’d already made a pact with her. They wouldn’t speak a word of that. Tonight, all he wanted was time with her, right there in her apartment. Time to sit and get to know each other, without the press of—well, the press.
What that all meant, she couldn’t be sure. But there’d been a change in his voice. Something she’d never heard from him before. Hope.
Footsteps sounded in the hall, followed by a light knock. He was right on time.
She went to the door and peered out of her peephole. Her jaw slacked.
There was Shana Fischer, her back straight, holding Grace’s hand at her side.
What was this? Their scheduled visitation wasn’t until Sunday afternoon. Even then, it was supposed to take place at Shana’s estate, not here in her apartment. Why on earth had Shana braved coming there after sunset? As quickly as she could manage it, Laurel unlocked her deadbolt and swung the door open.
In an instant, Grace let go of Shana’s hand. She ran and threw herself around Laurel’s middle. Her daughter’s embrace—it was so warm, like heaven really. Yet, how must Shana feel, witnessing the closeness they shared, time after time? A glance at Shana’s misting eyes confirmed it. Shana dropped her head, but it was all too clear. The woman was in agony.
Laurel leaned down to Grace. “Sweetheart, it’s so good to see you. Do you think you could run inside for now, so we grown-ups could have a moment to talk?”
“Okay, Mommy.” Grace turned to pick up her backpack, then disappeared into the apartment.
The door latch clicked into place. Shana raised her gaze once more. “About your card. I’d rather not speak any more of those things, but...thank you, Laurel. I accept your apology. And, in light of everything I’ve done, I do believe that I owe you one of my own.”
There was no need for any explanation. Shana’s rueful look said it all.
Laurel returned a nod. “Accepted, Shana. Of course.”
Resolutely, Shana pulled her car keys from her purse. “I’ll have the rest of her things sent over, as soon as you can accommodate them.”
Could this be? Laurel searched Shana’s face.
“As you may have guessed,” Shana said, “I’m the executor of Frank’s will. Fifty percent of it is allocated to Grace in trust. I’ll be assigning my half of his estate to you.”
“Shana, you don’t have to—”
Shana raised a polite hand. “No arguments, please.” Conviction glimmered in her eyes. “You’re not the only one who hears from God, Laurel. And I’m quite sure He’d like me to do this, to help you and Grace. Just promise me that you’ll move with her somewhere, to a safer place.”
“I promise.” Laurel caught her balance. Could this really be happening?
“Howard will draw up the paperwork. He’ll take care of everything with the court.” Shana’s voice caught in her throat. “As dearly as I love Grace, she’s yours.”
The enormity of it all washed over Laurel.
“Shana... I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Believe me, Laurel. It’s thanks enough to know that things are set right between us. I suppose you and I, we’ll both sleep better tonight. Better than we have for a very long time.”
Joe rounded the stairwell. His eyes widened at the sight of them.
Shana steadied her composure. “I should be going.” She started down the stairs.
Laurel gave Joe a welcoming smile. “Joe, would you mind seeing Shana to her car?”
He waited on the landing. “Not a bit.” Joe looked so handsome. And how about that? He’d shaved off his customary stubble.
Joe was also turning out to be quite the gentleman. He didn’t seem to mind a bit when he returned to discover Grace had unexpectedly turned their date into a homecoming celebration. Most men wouldn’t have taken that so well. But Joe Hardisty wasn’t most men. He was a man, just waiting for a family to call his own. It was so clear, from the easy conversation he struck up with Grace. He even had Grace laughing a time or two before they tucked her into bed.
Joe looked on from the doorway as Laurel smoothed the covers around Grace’s shoulders. “Pleasant dreams, Gracie.”
Grace snuggled under her blankets. “This is just like you saw, back when you had that other dream. The secret one, about us being together again. Isn’t it like that, Mommy?”
“Well, come to think of it, I guess it is.” Laurel bent down and brushed Grace’s cheek with a kiss. “Goodnight, Sweet Girl.”
“Night, Mommy.”
Laurel rose and turned out the light. She pulled the door over, her heart brimming with gratitude. The promise she’d believed all that time—it had come true, in ways far beyond her imaginings.
She tiptoed with Joe back into the living room. What a wonderful smile he had. And how great it was to see it. “You’re really good with her, Joe.”
“She’s a great kid. And it seems like we have a lot in common.”
“Meaning?” They settled onto the sofa.
