Ben took her through the ambulance and engine, describing everything, then he showed her the screen of a black-handled device.
“It’s a thermal imaging camera. We use this to see in dense smoke or darkness. It picks up images by sensing temperature. So if a kid’s hiding in a corner, we can see that on the screen.”
The timer buzzed from the kitchen. “Could you pull the pizza out?” Ben didn’t look up from fiddling with the camera. “Then I have one more thing to show you.”
When she returned, he handed her the device. “I thought you’d like to see it work. Go ahead, point it at that wall.”
Curious, she aimed the tool at the cinderblock wall, wondering what it could possibly pick up. Then, in reddish orange hues, a message appeared. Her brows knitted. “How . . .”
Ben grinned. “While you were in the kitchen, I pressed my hands on the wall and wrote that. The camera’s sensing the heat left by my hands.”
She stared at the message again. The letter “I” was followed by a heart, then the letter “U.” I love you. Her heart swelled as she looked at Ben shyly. “You—you do?”
“Of course I do.” He took her in his arms and nuzzled her neck. “I would have told you months ago, but I didn’t want to scare you away.”
That was Ben, always putting her and her ridiculously delicate heart first. Always. It was impossible not to love him in return.
Now, she clung to the memory and embraced him in her mind. Her eyes settled on his lips, lips that were usually always smiling, now listless and pale. She remembered his soft, gentle kisses, and her throat tightened. “Please, wake up. Come back to us.”
The tick, tick, tick of a clock filled the silence. She became aware again of the Jorgensens as everyone waited and watched Ben for the flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a muscle. Any kind of response.
Any.
When none came, Mrs. Jorgensen pulled her seat beside Charlene with a sigh. “He was so excited to take you to that sunset place. He’s been there so many times before, I don’t know why this time . . . ” She shook her head, the ends of her brown hair sweeping her neck. “He was so eager to propose, even silly enough to be nervous that you’d say no.” She glanced with shimmery eyes at Charlene’s hand, as if to prove a point, and her mouth dropped open at the sight of Charlene’s bare finger. “You—you aren’t wearing the ring. You didn’t say no, did you?”
Charlene rushed to cancel the incredulity in her eyes. “No, of course not. I said yes!”
“But then, why . . . why aren’t you wearing the ring? Didn’t it fit? I know some girls these days like to pick out their own, but Ben didn’t think that was very romantic. He’s kind of old-fashioned. It had to be a diamond, and he wanted to surprise you. He—”
“No, truly, I love the ring. The fit was perfect. I wanted to wear it, it’s just—” she ducked sheepishly and forced out the words—“it slipped, and I dropped it, and it fell. Over the cliff.”
After a stunned silence, Mrs. Jorgensen found enough voice to rasp, “What?”
But Charlene knew she didn’t need to repeat it. Besides, loss of the ring was not nearly as terrible as her cowardice to admit the whole truth of what had happened to Ben.
Her gaze spotted a crucifix resting beside a prayer book on the side table. Please, Jesus, make Ben better. I’ll be such a good wife, I promise. She touched his hand, the skin neither warm nor cold, but a disturbing blend of the two.
“So tell us again. How exactly did Ben fall?” Lucy’s direct question, spoken in a voice dead of emotion, hit Charlene like an arrow in the heart. Her hand shrank from Ben’s as she stood and turned to face his family.
She wanted to whisper, but she made herself speak up. “It was my fault.” She closed her eyes, unable to watch their faces. “We were near the edge when he proposed. The ring slipped, and we both grabbed for it, but I—I bumped into him. I knocked him over.”
Mrs. Jorgensen gasped, and Charlene’s eyes popped open in time to see Mr. Jorgensen steady her shoulders.
Lucy stood ramrod straight, staring at Charlene as if she’d grown horns.
Charlene’s lips trembled. “I’m so sorry.”
After a moment, Mr. Jorgensen said, “It was an accident. It’s not your fault.”
“Yes,” agreed his wife, though the word sounded forced. “Don’t blame yourself.”
Tears trickled from Charlene’s eyes. The Jorgensens were good, forgiving people. They wanted to forgive her, they had said the words they needed to, but she knew at that moment that they couldn’t stand looking at her. She didn’t blame them.
And Lucy said nothing.
“I’ll go now.” As Charlene edged past them, a dainty tap sounded at the door. A moment later, a pretty young woman slipped into the room.
“Hey, I just finished another call and thought I’d check in. How are you all holding up? How’s Ben doing?”
Charlene watched as the woman spoke with Ben’s family. She heard someone call her “Kate,” and she noted her firefighter shirt and long ponytail of chocolate-brown hair.
Kate didn’t look at her, but Charlene suddenly remembered her from that horrible night. She had been part of the rescue, had gone over the cliffside, and was right there beside Ben after they pulled him up. But shouldn’t her job be over? Was it normal to check in like this?
Kate stood beside Ben now, and for some reason, Charlene’s chest seized.
Even in his dismal condition, it was still obvious he was very attractive; his five o’clock shadow even enhanced the effect. Charlene hovered, watching, until she realized she was being petty. What did it matter if another girl visited him? He wasn’t even conscious. That was the only thing she should be concerned about.
Mentally, she gave him a hug. Bye, Ben. Wake up soon.
She left the hospital and wandered the town for a good portion of the afternoon, feeling aimless, but needing the sun and the breeze on her skin, the golden rays and the caress of warm air acting as a kind of therapy.
But through her contemplation came an uncomfortable awareness. As if she was being watched, or whispered about. But then, after her arrest, she realized she should have expected that. She tucked her head down, returned to her car, and drove home.
* * *
Woodfield. A stupid name for a stupid town.
Nails chomped on cold leftover pizza, chewed the rubbery cheese, and stared at the weak watercolor print on the motel wall. Figured the kid would have ties to a stupid town.
His girl, though, that Charlene, she was something. Nails pulled out her picture and raked it with his eyes. She was even more of a looker in person, and the years had been kind to her. She’d gone from a teen to a real woman.
His lip curled. What was her problem? Despite killer looks, she dressed like a prude and walked with timid hesitance, eyes downcast, as if she could hide herself from the world.
But she couldn’t hide from him.
He barked a laugh. He might scare the life right out of her. Then again, those quiet ones could be tigers. He’d enjoy finding out. Like he had with Raquel. That she-cat wasn’t a keeper, but she’d been fun while he needed her.
His stomach full, he tossed the last piece of pizza at the cheap framed watercolor. It bounced off the glass, leaving a greasy smear. An improvement.
Crossing his arms behind his head, he leaned back against the pillow. The motel room was lousy, but it beat a rank cell any day. He zapped on the TV and flicked through channels till his thumb paused on the remote.
There she was, on the news, wearing sunglasses like a celebrity. Her protective brother stuck to her side, leading her down the courthouse steps. Her cheeks burned red. Her hair flew wild. He grinned as he wondered how she’d liked the taste of jail. Now that was one jail he would have liked to have been in.
Drugs, they said? Who’d have thought? Such a sweet little innocent girl like that. Just went to show, no one’s perfect. No one.
He chuckled and hoped the charges would stick.
/> The kid wouldn’t like that. No, not one bit.
Chapter Five
That night, sleep came at last, but at a price. Charlene dreamed, and it changed into a nightmare. She awoke to a splitting pain in her head, and a scream, not her own, still shrieked on. After a moment, she realized it came from outside her window—the whistle of a passing train.
She rubbed her forehead and then her temples while letting her racing heart recede to a normal pace.
She’d dealt with enough nightmares in her life to know not to attempt to analyze them. Tonight’s dream was nothing more than the result of an overactive imagination and her visit to the hospital.
Though why Clay was in it, she didn’t know. He did that, intruding unexpectedly every once in a while. Quite annoying. And what was with him being surrounded by light? Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe he’s dead.
Or maybe I shouldn’t have eaten chocolate ice cream right before bed.
At least it hadn’t been an Abner dream. Those ones, about Clay’s evil, vengeful brother who had kidnapped and tortured her and Max, were the worst. But she hadn’t had that kind of nightmare in over a year now.
What kind of nightmares would she have if she went to jail?
Don’t think about it. She shuddered and pushed her hair out of her face.
Deep inside, she knew she was still tired and should plop her head back down on her pillow, but instead, she flicked on her bedside light. Moving quicker than any censoring thoughts, her hand reached into her nightstand drawer and snatched out a wrinkled envelope. She held it, and that was all it took for the memory to come flooding back. She was there once more, in the cemetery . . .
Clay’s eyes, a rich brown, finally found hers for the briefest second before turning back to his mother’s grave. Despite the fact that it was well past the customary time to leave the cemetery, Charlene lingered. At Margaret’s request, there was no funeral luncheon to attend.
Charlene’s eyes watered in the cold, and then grief tore a hot tear from her eye as she watched the casket being lowered down, down, until, too soon, it was out of sight forever.
Watch over her, Dear Lord. Goodbye, Margaret. I pray we’ll meet again in heaven . . .
Charlene flinched as Clay watched what he really wasn’t meant to: the abrupt dropping of a load of earth into the open grave, from a truck bed, onto his mother’s vault. Nothing gentle or subtle about that. But efficient. Very efficient.
“Charlene?” Ben’s voice. How easily she’d forgotten him. She turned almost guiltily.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What do you say we go grab ourselves a cup of coffee and warm up?”
“Oh, no thanks. I actually think I’ll stay just a bit longer.” She couldn’t imagine leaving Clay yet. Besides, she had an important letter to give him, one that his mother had entrusted her to deliver if she wasn’t able to speak with him before she died. Margaret’s one stipulation was that Charlene had to give him the letter in private. “It’s a sad letter,” was all the explanation Margaret had provided.
“But please, Ben, you go ahead,” Charlene urged. “Don’t stay because of me.”
“That’s all right. I don’t mind, really.”
She lowered her gaze as they fell into silence, waiting. She couldn’t bring herself to intrude on Clay’s solitude, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to leave.
The cemetery workers finished spreading the mounded dirt, and at that moment, white crystalline flakes began fluttering from the sky. The workers left, and still Clay stood at the foot of the grave. So stiff. Not even shivering.
She heard Ben clear his throat softly, and she knew he was wondering what she was waiting for.
And suddenly, she knew.
She was afraid. Afraid to talk to Clay. It was what she had wanted for so long, and yet now the thought terrified her. How much had his time in prison affected him? What if he still didn’t want to see her? After all, what was she to him but a reminder of a horrible time best forgotten?
Go to him.
She heard the words as something like a whisper in her head, and she was reminded of Margaret’s gentle, guiding voice.
Praying that she could be more of a comfort than a curse, Charlene took a deep breath and moved forward.
Just as she was about to open her mouth, Clay, his eyes still on the grave, spoke. “Thanks for coming, Charlene. And thanks for looking after her all those months. I know it meant the world to her.”
She shook her head. “You meant the world to her, Clay.”
He was silent for a long time as he watched the snow sprinkling the fresh grave, covering it flake by flake and weaving a heavenly white blanket.
“No headstone, no flowers.” He spoke the words without emotion.
She remembered how Margaret had specifically requested, with all the strength of a dying woman, that, in lieu of flowers, all money be used for Masses. “Masses for the repose of my soul. That’s all I’ll want. Plant flowers later, for your own sake, if you wish, but I won’t need them.”
“She doesn’t care,” Charlene assured him. “There will be plenty of time for that later. When the ground’s thawed and summer comes, we can plant some of her favorite flowers . . .” She tapered off, hoping she hadn’t been presumptuous in saying “we.”
With something like a nod, he picked up a nearby stick. Slowly, he traced one long line in the snow down the middle of his mother’s plot. He followed this with another line, forming a cross. He drew a letter under the left arm of the cross, an “M.” Under the right arm, he wrote an “A.”
MA.
He set the stick down and stared at the simple markings. He swallowed a few times. At last he cleared his throat and said, “I’m gonna miss her.”
“Me too,” she whispered.
In her pocket, she clasped Margaret’s letter and wondered, Is this the right time?
Her ears detected the scrunching sound of footsteps in the snow, and Ben appeared by her side.
Clay looked up.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” Ben said with deep sincerity.
“Thanks.”
Ben offered his hand. “My name’s Ben, by the way. Ben Jorgensen.” He glanced at her. “I’m a friend of Charlene’s.”
Clay shook Ben’s hand but remained silent, obviously feeling no need to say his own name. He knew, of course, that Ben was already familiar with it from the news and from her.
Her hand released the letter in her pocket.
Now was not the time.
“Max wanted to be here, too,” she told Clay, suddenly feeling the need to fill the silence, “but his flight got canceled because of the weather. He’s very sorry, too.”
“Tell him I appreciate it.”
After another few moments of awkwardness, Ben spoke up. “Well, Charlene, what do you say we let Clay say his goodbyes in private?”
She nodded. Yes, of course, how inconsiderate of me . . . But still, there was the matter of the letter. “Will we see you around?”
Clay’s dark brows pulled together and he eyed her directly, as if trying to decipher just exactly what she was asking. For some reason, she couldn’t hold his gaze, and she moved on to a new question. “Are you staying in town?”
“For now,” he said vaguely, still not answering her first question.
She didn’t want to beg for a meeting with him, but the letter weighed on her.
Ben began moving to the sidewalk. She glanced again at Clay with a strange feeling close to urgency, as if she had to convince him of something. She decided to be honest. “I’m glad you’re finally free, and I hope I’ll see you again. You know you have a fresh start now, right?”
He gave a wry smile. “Do I?”
“Of course.”
He rubbed his forehead wearily before gazing past her. Then, with a sad attempt at a smile, he said, “Ben’s waiting for you.”
She was being dismissed. With a nod, she walked away to join Ben, who linger
ed patiently on the sidewalk. “It’s slippery,” he warned, and he took her arm.
They walked a few steps. Then, unable to resist, she glanced back over her shoulder to see Clay still at his mother’s grave, his head bowed.
Beyond him, beyond the headstones, she caught a glimpse of a thin man lurking near the trees. Was it the same man she had noticed earlier, right after the service? He slipped from sight back into the shadows, as if he had been a mere extension of the darkness, and she shivered.
“Come on, Charlene,” Ben said, “let’s go get you that cup of coffee.”
She let him lead her away while all the while there was only one thought on her mind. When and how would she see Clay next?
Two days later, a letter came for her in the mail. She recognized Clay’s handwriting from all the letters he’d sent to his mother, though there was something terribly messy and careless about the writing on this one. With a sense of foreboding, Charlene removed the letter and read the badly scrawled words.
Now, sitting on her rumpled bed, with the memories pressing in, she pulled out that letter again. If one could call two short sentences a letter.
She ran her fingers over the ragged edge where the blue-lined, thin white page had been torn from a spiral notebook. The paper was even more wrinkled than the envelope. She’d tugged it out and read it way too many times, especially in those first weeks after receiving it, always looking for more, hoping that somehow, it didn’t really say what it did, didn’t really mean what it did. His letters to his mom had always been so kind.
But this one, to her . . . she gave in and glanced at it.
After the Thaw Page 5
