He'd thought of Caitlyn as a golden girl -- beautiful, smart, funny, rich -- a woman who had everything. Only she didn't have everything, and she never would. There wouldn't be a child with her smile, or her hair, or her incredible eyes. The truth tore him apart. It was just plain and simply wrong. And he wanted to -- God help him -- he wanted to fix it.
Maybe Caitlyn was right. Maybe telling her parents would leave them with the same helpless feeling of wanting to make it right but unable to do so.
Matt took the University Avenue exit, following the directions that Blake had given him on the phone and trying to refocus his attention on the task at hand.
There was nothing he could do to help Caitlyn right now, but maybe there was something he could do to help Sarah. His eyes narrowed as he drove farther away from the university and parallel to the freeway. The neighborhood was not the best, and it made him wonder what kind of life Sarah had led during the years they'd been apart. He'd hoped for her sake that she'd been adopted by some nice suburban family with a big house and clean sheets and a safe neighborhood. He had a terrible feeling that hadn't happened.
As he turned the corner, Matt spotted Blake in his forest-green Jeep Cherokee parked near the corner. After parking his own car, he walked down the street to the Jeep and slid into the passenger seat. The car smelled like tacos, and judging by the fast-food wrappers piled up in the backseat, Blake had passed the boring hours of his watch by eating. Not that the man showed an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. In his mid-forties, at six foot five, two hundred plus pounds, Blake, an ex-marine with a couple of ex-wives and an ex-drinking problem, was not a man to be messed with. Matt had met him while covering a political story in Washington ten years earlier, and over time Blake had conducted several investigations for him, including the long-running search for Sarah.
"He hasn't come out," Blake said, his eyes fixed on the apartment down the street.
"What did he look like?"
"A punk. Skinny, stringy hair, tank top, blue jeans falling off his ass. You know the look."
Unfortunately, he did. Matt felt more depressed by the second. Was this really where Sarah had lived? And who was this guy? A friend? A lover? A stepbrother? He didn't know which possibility disturbed him the most.
"Let's go," Matt said decisively. "I'm tired of waiting."
"You and me both." Blake got out of the car with Matt, and they walked down the block to the apartment building that Sarah had apparently called home. Her apartment was on the second floor with a sticker that said Beware of Dog in the window. Matt didn't believe that one for a second. He rapped on the door. No answer. He knocked again -- louder.
The door was thrown open with a resounding "Shit."
The guy facing them wore baggy blue jeans hanging past his crotch, a pair of yellow boxers sticking out at the waist. His skinny chest was bare save for a snake tattoo across his abdomen. Judging by the blank look in his eyes, he was either stoned or hung over, Matt couldn't tell which.
"We're looking for Sarah," Matt said.
The guy's dull, vacant gaze sharpened somewhat at this piece of information. "Who are you?"
"We're friends."
"Sarah don't have no friends."
"Where is she?"
"Don't know. Don't care."
"Well, you're going to care." Matt pushed past him and entered the apartment. It was a pit, beer bottles, wine bottles, smoke so thick you could barely see.
"What the fuck are you doing, dude?" the guy asked. "You can't just come in here, and--”
His words were cut off as Blake pushed him up against the wall, one hand encircling his throat. "He wants to know where Sarah is, and you're going to tell him."
"She ain't here," he gasped. "Let me go."
"Where is she? When did you last see her?" Matt asked.
When he didn't reply, Blake said, "Maybe I can squeeze it out of him."
"She split a couple of weeks ago," the guy said hastily. "That's all I know, dude."
"Then you won't mind if I take a look around, will you?" Matt didn't wait for an answer but headed into the bedroom.
"She ain't in there."
No, she wasn't, Matt realized, but there was something more telling inside -- a cheap bassinet sitting next to the bed. His stomach turned over. Had Sarah and Emily really lived in this dump? He walked over to the bassinet and saw an old blanket inside, nothing more.
He stepped back and took note of the rest of the room, the double bed with tangled sheets, a battered dresser, clothes everywhere, and then he saw something on the floor, something he remembered vividly, a small gold heart on a thin chain. Sarah. He picked it up, his pulse speeding with the memories. He'd given her the necklace for her fifth birthday. It was nothing more than a drugstore trinket, but she'd loved it.
Taking a breath, he told himself with renewed determination that he would give it back to her, that he would find her and make everything right again. He walked over to the dresser and ran through the drawers, discovering three pieces of paper lying loose on a pile of underwear. They all had one name in common, Sarah Vaughn.
The first was a pay stub from Laree's Hair Salon in Sacramento, the second a bill for a prenatal visit at Oakland County Hospital, and the third was a bus schedule for travel through the Bay Area. He stuffed all of them into his pocket and returned to the living room to find Blake searching through a desk while Sarah's friend smoked a cigarette and acted like he didn't give a shit. Hell, maybe it wasn't an act.
"What's your name?" Matt asked.
"John Smith."
"Very original."
The guy sneered at him, and Matt had to resist the urge to put his fist through John Smith's smart-ass mouth. "When did you last see Sarah?"
"I don't remember. Why do you want her? She ain't good for nothing."
"I just want her. If she comes back, tell her to call her brother."
The guy didn't even blink. "She don't have no brother."
Matt stared back at him. "What happened to the baby?"
"Dead." And he smiled a slick, nasty smile. "Sarah's probably dead, too."
Matt lunged for him, but Blake pulled him back. "Don't do it, man," he said, pulling him out of the apartment.
"You shouldn't have stopped me." Matt freed himself from Blake's grip as they hit the sidewalk.
"Seeing you arrested on assault charges won't help us find Sarah. He was yanking your chain. You know that. Now, what did you find in the bedroom?"
"Sarah was definitely there." Matt pulled out the necklace. "This was hers."
"Anything else?"
Matt handed Blake the hospital bill and the bus schedule. "Why don't you take these? I'll check out the pay stub. I need to do something. I can't just sit around and wait."
Blake nodded. "Did you happen to notice the scratch marks on our friend's arms? Looked like some woman with long fingernails got tangled up with him."
Matt felt sick. He'd barely looked at the guy, so intent had he been on finding something of Sarah's. "If he hurt her, I'll kill him."
"Well, let's find her first"
"She has to be all right," Matt said, trying to convince himself. But all he could remember was that asshole's parting words: Sarah's probably dead, too.
Chapter Thirteen
Sarah hovered outside the doorway to Jonathan's home office. Two men were with him; Jonathan had introduced them to her as board members. They'd gone straight back to his office, their expressions very serious, and as the minutes passed, their voices had gotten louder. She wondered what was wrong. She hoped she hadn't gotten Jonathan into trouble. But as she listened, it didn't appear they were talking about her.
"Yesterday's numbers were appalling," one of the men said. "Pauline told me you had seven people sitting in the pews."
"I think there were ten," Jonathan said calmly.
"You're preaching to no one, Jonathan, and it isn't that we blame you, but we can't keep the church open for the few that come," the other man said.
"Why not? I believe one soul is just as important as twenty. And by the way, I think the Lord is on my side in this."
Sarah felt her lips curve into a small smile at Jonathan's dry tone. Good for him, she thought. He was fighting back. The board members were not amused.
"The budget is not on your side. I don't want to argue with you. This is the bottom line. We'll give you two more weeks to find a way to fill this church on Sunday. If you can't do it, then we'll close. We don't want you to think we're blaming you for any of this. In fact, there's a wonderful church in the South Bay. Reverend Davis is planning to retire next month. We think you might fit in very well there."
Sarah caught her bottom lip with her teeth as their words sunk in. They were going to send Jonathan away.
"Two weeks is hardly enough time. I've barely gotten to know this community. I still have work to do."
"You can tie up whatever loose ends you have in the next few weeks. This church in the South Bay is wonderful -- teen choirs, ladies' groups, picnic suppers, fund-raisers, and a congregation that comes every Sunday rain or shine. It's a wonderful opportunity for a young minister."
"I like it here. This community needs a church."
The other man spoke up in a gruff voice. "If they needed a church so bad, they'd show up on Sunday and thank God for one."
Sarah frowned. These two men didn't seem religious to her at all. They were talking about the church like it was a grocery store that wasn't selling enough bread.
"It's not that simple," Jonathan answered. "The poverty in the neighborhood takes a toll. Some of the people here work two jobs and on Sunday all they want to do is sleep."
"Exactly. They don't need a church."
"Of course they do. And so do their children."
"You tried to start a youth group. No one came."
"These things take time. I've been here less than a year."
"I'm sorry, Jonathan. We've simply run out of time. All we can give you is two more Sundays. Talk it over with your father. Perhaps he can help."
Sarah heard their chairs move, and she darted back into the living room before they could catch her listening in the doorway. Her pulse was racing and she was having trouble catching her breath. She hadn't realized until just this second how dependent she'd become on Jonathan and his church.
He had been so kind to her. Last night he'd offered her a bed in his guest room instead of forcing her to go to a shelter. For a split second she'd cynically wondered if he'd be paying a late-night visit, but he simply said good night with the gentle smile that was beginning to warm her as much as the sight of any church steeple, and she'd slept peacefully for the first time in a long time.
When she'd gotten up in the morning, she'd found a pile of clean clothes outside her door, nothing fancy, just blue jeans, a T-shirt and some underwear, but she'd appreciated the thought. After taking a shower and brushing her hair, she felt almost normal again.
Jonathan had made her pancakes for breakfast, saying his housekeeper wouldn't be coming in until the afternoon, but he wasn't bad with Bisquick mix, a couple of eggs, and some milk. The pancakes had been spectacular, the best she'd ever eaten. The rest of the morning had passed by in a blur as he'd given her errands to run -- a trip to the post office and the office supply store down the street for some file folders.
Jonathan made her feel like she was important, as if she was worth something. Sarah wanted to keep that feeling alive. She wanted to believe in the good things he said instead of the bad things that kept running around in her head, telling her she couldn't do it, couldn't make it, couldn't be anything.
Maybe she could take care of Emily. Maybe she could be a good mother.
Even as the glimmer of hope tried to flop its wings and catch flight, it quickly died. She had no education, no job, no money, no place to live, and it looked like the church and Jonathan would be gone in a few days. She wouldn't even have a friend then. She'd be right back where she started -- nowhere.
The front door to the house opened. A black woman came down the hall. It was the same woman she'd seen with the reverend that first day, the one who'd looked at her breasts and known right away she'd had a baby. Sarah self-consciously crossed her arms in front of her chest, even though her breasts had finally given up on nursing and flattened out the way they'd always been, another reminder of her failure to be a mother.
The woman raised her eyebrow when she saw Sarah standing in the room. "Well, you came back. You feeling better?"
"Yes."
"That's good. Where's Reverend Mitchell?"
"He's in a meeting."
The woman's lips drew together in a sharp frown as she looked down the hall. "Oh, dear. They came early."
Sarah wondered if the woman was worrying about Jonathan or the church or maybe just her own job. She seemed to serve some purpose, although Sarah wasn't sure what.
"Do you need something?" the woman asked.
Obviously, she wondered why Sarah was standing in the living room. "Jonathan, I mean Reverend Mitchell asked me to wait."
"I see. You can sit down if you want."
"Oh, all right." Sarah took a seat on the couch. She self-consciously clasped her hands together as Pauline stared at her from the doorway.
"My name is Pauline," the woman said unexpectedly. "If I can help, let me know."
"I'm all right."
"What happened to your baby?"
Sarah was taken aback by the abrupt change in subject. Apparently, now that they were on a first-name basis, Pauline wanted more information. "She's with some friends."
"You don't look like you have many friends."
Sarah didn't know what to say in reply. She doubted Pauline would believe anything she had to say.
"I hope you'll take whatever help Reverend Mitchell offers you," Pauline said. "It's not any easier out on the streets. You might run away from one bad situation only to find yourself in a worse one. Well, you give a holler if you need something."
Sarah nodded and let out a sigh of relief when she was alone again. The meeting down the hall was still in progress. Too restless to stay seated, Sarah got to her feet and walked quickly to the front door, slipping out of the house as quietly as she could. It struck her that she was always leaving, always escaping, always trying to run away from her problems, just like her mama. But where to go next? That was the question that plagued her as she walked down the sidewalk.
Maybe she should go to Mattie's, see if she could spot Emily. Just the thought of her baby made her stomach contract in a deep hungry yearning. How badly she wanted to hold Emily again, to touch her soft head, to whisper to her that everything would be all right, the way she'd done every night when she'd lain in bed, her hand pressed against her stomach, feeling the baby's tiny feet kick and flutter within her.
Sarah gasped at the rush of emotion that hit her. The suffocating pain stole her breath right out of her chest, and she put a hand to her heart, wondering if it would ever stop hurting. She tried to tell herself that it didn't matter if she was hurting, as long as her baby wasn't.
As she drew in long, calming breaths, torn between going and staying, she saw the woman with the watering can again. She was almost a full block away, her big straw hat hanging low on her head. Sarah suddenly had the urge to catch up with her. There was something so familiar about the woman, the way she walked, the way she concentrated so intently on her watering, and yet it couldn't be. It was impossible, or was it?
Sarah jogged down the street, almost as afraid of catching up with the woman as she was afraid of losing her.
* * *
"I think you'd look perfect in an off-the-shoulder dress, something simple, sleek, sophisticated," Caitlyn murmured as she studied the slender woman in front of her. For the first time in a long time, her fingers itched for a sketch pad and a pencil. But she wasn't anywhere near her drawing board. Instead she was standing in front of a rack of gowns that came from every top designer in the country, reminding her th
at her dreams had been put on hold for far too long.
"None of these are right," Danielle Slawson replied. "And I don't want what everyone else has."
Caitlyn didn't think many people did, but that was the way of the world.
"I'd like my own dress, something made just for me. Do you know a designer I could work with?"
Caitlyn hesitated. If she said yes, she might actually have to design a dress, and she hadn't completed one drawing since before the accident. What if she still couldn't do it?
"I see something with a long line of tiny pearls going down my back, intricate lacework, but nothing too poofy or trite," the woman said with a wistful note in her voice. "You see, I've waited thirty-eight years to find the right man to marry. I didn't want to settle for second best in a man, and I certainly don't want to settle for second best in a dress."
Caitlyn felt something inside of herself shift at Danielle's heartfelt words. She wondered if she hadn't settled before, if Brian hadn't been a little too easy. He'd slipped into her life like one of the family. She'd been innocent, wanting the basics -- someone to love her, someone to promise she wouldn't ever be alone, someone to hide all the bad stuff away so she wouldn't have to see it. But Brian had left her to deal with the bad stuff on her own, and she'd become a woman who wanted more than the basics.
"I want everything in this wedding to be real and honest and not off of a rack," Danielle added, bringing Caitlyn's attention back to the matter at hand. She smiled apologetically. "I know I'm getting carried away. My friends can hardly believe it. I've always been a career-driven woman, but Travis makes me feel all gooey inside."
Caitlyn offered her a smile. "You should get carried away. Getting married is one of the most important things you'll ever do. You should have your wedding just the way you want it. Would you let me design a dress for you?" Caitlyn asked impulsively as Danielle started to turn away.
She looked surprised. "Can you do that?"
"I think so. You can approve the design and be involved every step of the way. But since we have some time, I'd love to try and come up with something you love."
Some Kind of Wonderful Page 17
