“Just wait.” He flashed his best smile, then approached the ledge. He turned around, grasped the colorful rope, and began to rappel over the edge.
Fear fluttered within her. From wheelchair to rock climbing in a matter of months. That’s Ben. She wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or concerned.
She crept as close to the edge as she dared, and waited, hands at her stomach.
“Stand clear, I’m coming back up,” he announced, to her relief.
She backed up to a giant coppery rock. When his flushed face appeared, she wondered if this whole episode was a return-to-conquer-your-fears kind of thing. As if he had to show the cliff who was boss.
Musing, she didn’t register the transformation on his face as he approached. Stopping in front of her, still in rope and harness, he dropped to one knee on the pine-needled rock. As he held out a ring, she regarded him incredulously. “What are you doing?”
“Exactly what it looks like.” He cleared his throat. “It was one year ago today, exactly, that I first proposed to you. I want us to have a fresh start. This is our second chance. We can get it right this time.” A trickle of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Charlene Elizabeth Perigard, will you marry me?” He held up the ring, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, and waited.
“Is this . . . the original ring?”
“The one and the same. I didn’t want to settle for a replacement. You deserve the original.”
“And—is that what you were doing? You just found it now? How could you have known—”
He shifted uncomfortably on his knee. “Okay. I found it weeks ago, with hours of searching and the help of a metal detector. That’s not important.” He swiped a hand across his forehead, leaving a dirt streak, and sighed. “Try not to overanalyze it. I did this today for the effect.”
As in, to impress her. As in, look-what-lengths-I-went-to-for-you. As in, I-love-you-this-much. Undeniably romantic.
And sadly desperate.
Her voice came out soft. “Thank you, Ben, but I still can’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t love you.”
His crestfallen look was replaced by determination. He squinted intently. “Marry me anyway. Please.”
A small sound moved her throat. Her heart broke to hear him beg so pitifully. “You can’t mean that. You’re asking me to chain you to a loveless marriage. I would never do that to you. You deserve—”
“But I want you. I have so much to offer you. I’m even starting fulltime with the fire department next month. We can forget this year ever happened. We’re right for each other. Maybe you can’t see that now, but I’m sure you’d come to love me over time.” His hand without the ring squeezed into a fist. “That’s enough for me.”
“And if I didn’t, you’d come to hate me. And resent me. You would.”
“Never. You’re all I need. You’re—” His voice cracked. “Look—look inside the ring. The inscription you never got to read. Look at it now, and . . . reconsider.”
The wet shine in his eyes and his distressing plea were tragic. If she’d known she was in for this emotional turmoil, she never would have agreed to the hike.
Acquiescing, she took the ring from him and carefully looked inside the band, tilting it to read the words engraved in gold.
The sun caught the inscription: The answer to a prayer.
He thought she was the answer to his prayer.
Her heart squeezed.
“Oh, Ben.” She lowered the ring and took his hand gently. “Sometimes, the answer to a prayer . . . is no.”
She laid the ring in his palm and curled his fingers around it before letting go.
* * *
The day after Ben’s proposal, Charlene detected an odd odor, like a bad perfume, in the apartment hall when she came home from work. Entering her place, she almost slipped on a sheet of white paper lying on the floor just inside her door. The white rectangle stood out starkly on the gray linoleum. Jadedly, she wondered if Ben had pushed a letter under her door. She sincerely hoped not. Amazingly, he hadn’t tried calling once since the disastrous hike, and she was fairly sure she’d finally gotten through to him.
When she flipped the paper over, she saw no penned or typed words of any kind, only a simple printed picture. It wasn’t even a photograph, but a clip art image of an old-fashioned hourglass with sand running through.
Time running out? Fear skittered over her skin.
It wasn’t an obvious threat, yet she sensed it was sinister. Maybe she was reading into it. She had thought—dared hoped—the cruelties of last year were done, that they wouldn’t follow her to Creekside, but now it seemed they’d caught up to her at last.
Not wanting to study the picture any longer, she flipped it over and laid it on her counter.
That night as she sat missing Brook and Gabriella, the ticking wall clock brought to mind the hourglass, and she wondered how many more tense nights she’d have to endure alone.
Overflowing with nervous energy, she jumped up and began cleaning, sweeping floors that didn’t need it, vacuuming carpet that was already spotless, even moving the sofa in search of dust bunnies.
And there on the floor among the puffs of gray, lay a black rosary. She dropped to her knees and scooped it up, knowing instantly that it was Clay’s, remembering the night he had told her about it.
That strange, wonderful, awful night.
She brushed the dust off, watched the particles float down, then stared at the beads dangling from her fingers and realized the rosary must have ended up under the sofa the night Nails had kicked it, the night of the robbery.
She remained on her knees, head bowed. All this time, Clay had been without it. But knowing what it meant to him, her grasp tightened, knowing something else.
Whether she wanted to or not, she would have to give it back.
* * *
Cutting fabric yardage for customers the next day, Charlene’s heart alternately sank and bobbed with dread and elation. Today, after work, she would return the rosary. Today she would see Clay.
“Excuse me? Miss?”
Her scissors stilled and she looked up at a customer.
“I said I needed three yards of flannel, not two.”
“Oh, sorry.” She swiped the piece off the cutting table, unraveled the flannel bolt, and began again. Concentrate this time. Don’t think about Clay.
So instead, the unpleasant hourglass popped to mind. She could pinpoint two people who might want to frighten or threaten her: Nails or Horace. Ben flitted through her mind, but she immediately dismissed him. She knew him too well. Though he may be feeling hurt, he would never stoop so low.
Nails was still unaccounted for, but by his own admission of intent, he was likely gone from the country, enjoying Grandfather’s money. The more time passed, the more secure she felt accepting that.
Her scissors paused. Maybe Grandfather had left the picture. Although, if he was going to threaten her, she would expect something much more elaborate.
Which left her with Horace, who—creepy as he was—had faded to the back of her mind. Since she hadn’t seen him in so long, she doubted he was a concern. Unless he wanted her to grow complacent, unsuspecting. Maybe he had found the knife.
She folded the fabric, pinned on the price, then handed it to the waiting customer. As the woman walked away, Charlene realized something. She’d never told Clay about her online discovery and her suspicion that Horace might be deluded enough to believe he could break a curse by using her—or Clay—as sacrificial victims.
Now two reasons she had to see him today. Maybe the Horace theory was crazy, but she’d rather warn Clay than regret it.
Or maybe, she thought as she peddled home, she was looking for excuses to see him that wouldn’t appear desperate and needy.
After showering and taking extra time with her clothes and hair, she slipped in a pair of new hoop earrings, tucked Clay’s rosary in her purse, and headed out t
o the parking lot.
She climbed into her car for the first time in two months. The interior smelled stale, and she opened her windows. As she drove, excess energy made her hands skittish on the wheel.
All over Sam’s front yard, the first dandelions of spring flaunted bright yellow heads. She parked and exited to the buzz of a distant saw. Passing Sam’s truck in the drive, she did a double-take at a magnetic door sign advertising Sam and Son’s Custom Carpentry.
Well . . . now that was something. A sense of contentment descended on her. Clay and Sam must have reached a very agreeable reconciliation indeed. She was glad, but then disappointed when she didn’t see Clay’s truck anywhere.
The buzzing saw ceased and she knocked on the door frame to announce herself as she stepped into the shop, which was once again much messier than she’d ever allowed.
Sam looked up and caught her disapproving glance. “Come back for your old job? I’ll hire you anytime.”
She smiled but stayed hovering near the entrance, scanning the shop. “I’m here to talk to Clay. Is he around?”
Sam tucked a short pencil behind his ear. “Nope.”
She waited for him to expand on the statement, but he didn’t.
Like prying a pearl from an oyster. “Is he out on a delivery? Will he be back soon?”
“You could call him.” Sam hefted a board. “All I know’s, a guy stopped by to talk to him, and soon after that, Clay took off. Didn’t explain nothing to me.”
Sensing Sam’s gritty irritation, she stepped back. “The guy, was he a customer?”
“Never seen him before, and he didn’t place an order.”
“What did he look like?”
Sam’s wrinkled brow said, You think I got time to notice things like that? Yet, humoring her, he replied, “Young.”
So not Horace.
“Was he real big?”
“Tall, but not huge.”
Not Nails. “His hair?”
“Real dark. Black, I’d say.”
She immediately thought of Ben, his hair so dark brown, practically everyone mistook it for black. Her chest seized. Whatever Ben might have wanted, she knew it wouldn’t have been good. Of course, the visitor might have been no one she knew, and meant nothing, but she couldn’t ignore her concern.
“Thanks, Sam.”
Hands occupied, he jutted his chin in acknowledgment. “Don’t be a stranger ’round here.”
Back in her car, she slipped out her phone and did what she’d been telling herself for months that she would not do. She called Clay.
“Hey,” he answered.
She assumed his phone had shown who was calling, but she clarified anyway. “Hi, Clay, it’s Charlene.”
When he remained silent, she pressed on and tried to keep her nerves from disrupting her vocal cords. “Where are you? Can I come talk to you?”
While she waited uncomfortably for his answer, she heard a distracting background noise, similar to phone static, but more natural, more like wind.
“Sure.” He didn’t sound eager. “I’ll be home tonight.”
“Oh.” She didn’t want to wait that long. “So you’re busy right now?”
“Not busy. Just far.”
“Oh.” She slid her thumb along the steering wheel. “How far?”
“Lake Michigan. I was out this way to drop off an order and figured I’d stop.”
She pictured him walking the beach alone. “Would you care if I joined you?”
“Why would I care?”
Choosing to ignore the stiffness of his tone, she let out a breath. “All right, I’m heading that way. Will you meet me in the lot?”
“Don’t drive all the way out here. I’ll drive back.”
“No, it’s fine.” She could use the time to think. “I want to, really. I’ll call when I get there.”
Hanging up, she felt a strange anticipation. Hopeful thoughts rolled through her mind, and the drive didn’t feel nearly as long as it was.
When she arrived, she didn’t need to call, because Clay was already waiting, leaning against a tree trunk on the border of the lot. Theirs were the only vehicles.
“You made good time.” He kept his arms folded across his chest as she walked over. “Weren’t speeding, were you?”
She shook her head, so glad to see him that she wanted to just stand a moment and study his face. Feeling foolish, she looked down at her shoes and remembered why she was here. She dug the rosary from her pocket and held it out to him. “I found this.”
He took it, not commenting.
“I thought you’d be missing it.”
He shrugged and shoved it in his pocket. “I’ve got other rosaries. One’s as good as another.”
Despite the splash of sun on her shoulders, the breeze chilled her. Or perhaps it was his words.
He tilted his head. “You got your ears pierced.”
She touched the silver hoops and nodded. “In December.” So long ago. It shouldn’t matter if he liked them or not. But she didn’t want to stand there as if waiting for his statement to lead to a compliment. “Can we walk?”
They fell into step and trod the weathered, uneven boards of the cordwalk, which reminded her of a small-scale railroad track winding off into the trees, then out into open grass and weeds. The path was just wide enough for them to walk alongside each other, but narrow enough to make the side-by-side feel almost too close.
Neither one of them, though, made the move to go ahead or fall back. Clay kept his hands in his pockets. As they meandered, she heard waves surging and caught occasional glimpses of vibrant blue water. As she explained what she’d come across about the snake knife on the Satanic Museum website and laid out her theory, the entire thing sounded ludicrous to her ears.
He listened with few comments, and when she was done, he said in a worn voice, “That’s what you wanted to tell me?” His fists jammed deeper in his pockets. “You couldn’t have told me that over the phone?”
“I—I—” He was right. Why had she come all this way? Her brain scrambling, she cringed at the thought of admitting anything further. Her gaze fell on bitty bursts of purple flowers. “I wanted to give you the rosary. And see you.” Her heart picked up speed. “I haven’t seen you in months.”
“I was in town all that time. You could have stopped by. Any time.”
“I know.” But she hadn’t. She looked off to the fuzzy horizon. “I wanted to,” she confessed. She slanted him a hesitant glance as her face heated. “I just wasn’t sure if you’d really want to see me. After everything . . .” After I rejected you.
Maybe now it would be his turn to reject her. Could she risk that? Was it worth it? Her stomach knotted. “Did Ben come talk to you today?”
Not even asking how she knew, he answered, “He did.”
Trepidation filled her. “I don’t know what he said to you, but I can imagine.”
“I don’t think you can.”
Did he have to make this so difficult? “I’m sorry.”
He squinted up at the sky, then down at the grass. “For what?”
She wasn’t even sure anymore. Yet there was so much sorrow inside her, it was all she could think to say. “For Ben. For you. For everything. But whatever he said, just realize he didn’t mean it. He was probably angry, and venting. I . . . I broke off the engagement.”
“I know. He told me.”
She bit her lip and braced herself. “What exactly did he say?”
“Exactly? Besides the breakup, he told me three things: First, that I won. Second, that he always knew you had your heart set on me. And last of all, that if I ever hurt you, I’d have to answer to him.”
Her face flamed. Before she could sputter out something to deflect the situation, Clay halted and looked her straight in the eye. “Is it true?”
She knew he wasn’t referring to the part about answering to Ben. She almost wished he was. Unable to avoid his gaze, she stood statue-still. All she could manage was a nod.
&nbs
p; As if that wasn’t sufficient, he prodded, “So you do care about me?”
Again, she nodded.
He rubbed a hand against the side of his stubbly chin. “As a friend? Or more than that?”
She was done with nodding. Lord help me, here comes the honest truth. Summoning every thread of courage, she laid her hands on his shoulders, whispering, “More.”
Right before she kissed him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Clay returned the kiss. His hands wove into her hair, caressing gently yet strongly, pulling her closer. Needing her, like she needed him.
“Easy there, cowboy,” a man’s voice smashed the moment. “Don’t start something you ain’t ever gonna be able to finish.”
In agony, Charlene recognized the voice. No, not Nails. Not now. She flinched at the sharp jab of something in her spine, between her shoulder blades. A gun.
Her eyelids didn’t want to open to the nightmare, and her heart pounded against Clay as she tightened her grip. His arms wrapped her protectively, and she pressed her head against his shoulder. If she could just stay like this . . .
“Get the gun off her,” Clay growled.
“Back away from her,” Nails countered, “or I blast you both with one shot.”
Clay whispered in her ear, “It’ll be okay,” before slowly releasing her. His hands spread wide as he stepped away, anger sparking from his eyes. “What could you possibly want now?”
“As if you don’t know.” Nails’s arm cinched Charlene to his chest. His other hand jammed the gun to her temple. She tried not to tremble.
“Toss your phone on the ground in front of you,” he directed Clay. “You too, sweetie.” They did as he said, and he crushed their phones beneath his massive boots.
“Into the woods, Cissy,” Nails ordered. “Move it.”
Clay stalked off the path and into the trees, throwing back glares at Nails that said he’d like nothing more than to annihilate him. She knew he was scrambling for a solution. But a gun to her head didn’t leave much leverage.
After the Thaw Page 35
