Sunday Kind of Love

by Dorothy Garlock

  Listening to the back-and-forth, Gwen realized that a newspaper publisher wore many different hats. While Sid had had to tread delicately when talking to Buckton’s police chief, a friendly tone wasn’t always going to get the job done.

  Sometimes, you had to raise your voice.

  “I don’t care if you don’t want to wait! Do it!” Sid shouted, then hung up. Turning to Gwen, he said, “Sorry you had to hear that, but folks start to get grumpy when we’re close to printing. Nine times out of ten, it all goes like clockwork.” With a wink, he added, “Unfortunately for Gary, this is that one.”

  Sid stuck his head out the door and called for someone to come take Gwen’s article so that it could be edited and typeset.

  “I know I said it the last time you were here,” he told her once he was back behind his desk, “but I think you’ve got a future in this. If you’d ever want a recommendation for one of those fancy papers back in Chicago, I’d be happy to write you one.” Sid chuckled. “I don’t know how much it’d help, but I don’t think I burned enough bridges when I left for it to hurt.”

  “What if I wanted to work here?” Gwen asked, the suddenness of her question surprising even her.

  Sid nodded, mulling over what he’d heard. “You’re thinking of staying?”

  “I am,” she admitted.

  “What about Chicago? I thought you were happy there.”

  Gwen gave a thin smile. “I thought so, too,” she said. “But since I’ve been home, I’ve started to realize that things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “Falling in love has a way of doing that.”

  She couldn’t have agreed more.

  Just last week, Gwen had come back to Buckton in the company of another man, thinking that it was only for a short visit. But since then, her whole world had been turned upside down. Now, there was nowhere else she wanted to be, no man other than Hank with whom she wanted to share her life.

  “If you work here,” Sid explained, “you’ll have to start at the bottom. I know you’ve already had two headlines, but that’s not the way I do things. Whatever you get, you’ll earn, same as everyone else. In the beginning, that might mean answering phones or soliciting advertising. Can you do that?”

  “I can. I will,” she answered enthusiastically, stunned that her dream of becoming a writer was one step closer to reality. “I accept!”

  “Hold on a second,” Sid replied, tempering her happiness. “You should think it over for a day or two. The last thing I want is for you to realize you jumped the gun and quit on me after two weeks. Nobody wins if that happens. Once you’re sure this is what you want to do, then we’ll sit down and talk again, get all the details ironed out.”

  “All right,” Gwen agreed, although she knew nothing would change her mind. She couldn’t wait to tell Hank the good news.

  Just as she was about to leave, mindful that Sid still had a newspaper to put out, he said, “By the way, it looks like you were right about the fires.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was another one last night,” Sid explained. “Carl Tate’s auto garage went up in flames. Fortunately it didn’t spread to any nearby buildings, largely thanks to the storm. Still, Carl lost a couple cars and his livelihood. That’s three fires in not quite two weeks. If someone isn’t setting them deliberately, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Do you need something written up about it?” Gwen asked.

  Sid chuckled. “You don’t ever quit, do you?” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. Besides, you’ve got plenty on your plate. Remember, when people read the paper in the morning, things in Buckton are going to be different. Tongues will wag and phones will ring off the hook. My advice would be to talk to Hank, right now. He deserves to know what’s comin’.”

  Gwen nodded. Sid was right.

  It was time for her and Hank to have a long talk.

  Hank paced his workshop as restlessly as a caged animal, a paintbrush in his hand. So far he’d tried finishing the detail work on a table, taken his axe and chopped a dozen pieces of oak for a project he’d been meaning to start, and then begun applying varnish to a bench. He had done all these things to try to quiet the storm raging in his head, but nothing had worked.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about Gwen.

  His hands busy or still, his eyes open or shut, Hank couldn’t erase the sight of her in Kent’s arms. He wanted to believe that there was an explanation, that it hadn’t been what it seemed, but the image wouldn’t go away, taunting him. Doubt gnawed at his guts.

  Angry at himself, Hank whipped the paintbrush across the room and stalked outside, turning his face up to the late-afternoon sun.

  After speeding away from the Fosters’ house, he and Skip had gone to the hospital. Hank had been reluctant to visit his father, struggling to come to grips with what he’d just witnessed, but his friend had insisted. Seeing Myron hadn’t helped Hank’s mood. His father had been sleeping, his head heavily bandaged. To his son, he looked frail, older than his years, yet surprisingly peaceful. No matter how many indignities Hank had suffered since his mother’s death, regardless of the sacrifices he’d made in claiming responsibility for the accident that took Pete, Hank loved his father. He just wished it had been enough, that it would’ve fixed what was broken.

  “He’s gonna be all right,” Skip had said. “You’ll see.”

  When watching his father became too much to bear, Hank had gone in search of a doctor. Reading from a chart, the physician had explained that Myron’s cut was deep but it would heal, though it would likely leave a scar. The real warning had been reserved for his father’s drinking.

  “If he doesn’t stop soon,” the doctor had said, “it will kill him.”

  Hank had nodded, silently praying that this time, the lesson would be learned.

  The whole drive home, Hank kept hoping that when they pulled into the drive, Gwen would be there waiting for him. But she wasn’t. Skip had stuck around for a while, making small talk, suggesting that they go get some lunch or throw the baseball, but Hank hadn’t been interested. Eventually Skip had left his friend to battle his worries alone.

  And so here he was, confused, annoyed, and heartsick.

  It was then, lost in thought, that Hank heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. He walked up the drive, convinced that it was Gwen, excited to see her again yet dreading the difficult conversation that was sure to follow.

  But it wasn’t her.

  A red Plymouth turned onto the gravel and headed slowly toward him. Hank instantly recognized the car. It belonged to someone he never would have expected to see. Someone whose arrival heralded bad things.

  It was Jed Ringer.

  To make matters worse, he wasn’t alone. The two goons who’d been with him outside the malt shop popped out of the passenger door. “Thought you said he wasn’t gonna be home,” one of them said, a baseball bat slung over his shoulder, before his boss silenced him with a raised hand.

  Looking at the three men, Hank realized that fighting with Jed at the baseball game and goading him outside the malt shop had been playing with fire. A tough like Jed had likely been stewing about things ever since. Now he was searching for revenge. No doubt, there was about to be trouble.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Hank asked as he bunched his hands, preparing to fight. He was trapped in a sort of no-man’s-land, too far from both the house and his workshop; he wondered if he’d have time to reach either and grab something heavy before his unwanted visitors were on top of him.

  “Is that any way to talk to an old friend?” Jed replied.

  “We aren’t friends.”

  “No, we sure as shit aren’t,” he said with a humorless chuckle. “But that don’t mean I haven’t been thinkin’ a lot about you. Lately, seems like everywhere I go, there you are. One day, you’re messin’ up my baseball game; the next, I find you parked downtown, showin’ your face where it don’t belong.”

  While Jed talked, Hank not
iced that his two companions—he faintly remembered that their names were Clint and Sam—were slowly inching off to the sides, as if they were trying to flank him. Clint, the scrawnier one, shook the bat in his hand, testing its weight.

  “People don’t wanna see you,” Jed continued. “It makes ’em sick.”

  “I’ve got as much right to be there as everyone else.”

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said, smiling menacingly, coming closer, walking Hank down. “A murderer ain’t got no rights.”

  Even as he listened to Jed while trying to keep an eye on his flunkies, Hank worried about Gwen. What would happen if she suddenly showed up? She’d have no idea of the danger she was getting herself into. Was Jed sadistic enough to hurt her? Could Hank protect her if the bastard tried?

  “So what happened to your old man?” Jed asked. “Word around town is that he had himself an accident. Let me guess,” he added with a smirk, “you tied one on for old times’ sake and tried to do him like you did your brother.”

  Skip had been right; Jed loved to hear himself talk. But right now, Hank didn’t mind. He hoped it would be the man’s downfall.

  Hank knew he had only one chance to gain the upper hand. While Jed was busy listening to the sound of his own voice, he’d strike, take the most dangerous thug out of the fight, then move on to his cronies before they even knew what had happened. It was risky, but Hank didn’t have a choice.

  “What were you drinkin’?” Jed asked. “Whiskey? Or was it—”

  Before he could finish, Hank closed the distance between them and threw as hard a punch as he could. Things worked just like he’d planned; his fist cracked into Jed’s jaw, snapping his head sideways, dropping him to his knees in the gravel.

  Hank spun, knowing that his plan rested on taking advantage of the others before they could react. He’d hoped that the suddenness of his attack would catch them off guard, that they wouldn’t be ready for what came next.

  But he was wrong.

  The first blow caught him in the ribs. The second clipped his nose. But he was really done in when the baseball bat knocked him upside the head. Everything went topsy-turvy. One minute, Hank was on his feet, preparing to fight, and the next he was facedown in the rocks. Stars swam before his eyes. He struggled to keep from throwing up.

  “Home run!” Clint crowed.

  Groggy, Hank saw a blurry version of Jed get back to his feet, wipe blood from the corner of his mouth, and then spit into the yard. “Now why in the hell did you have to go and do that?” he asked, sarcastically offended. “Boys, I think this stupid son of a bitch wants us to make an example outta him.”

  Hank heard more than saw Jed walk away, back toward his car. In the man’s absence, he tried to clear his head, to get back on his feet, but as soon as he rose to his hands and knees, one of the others kicked him in the ribs.

  “Stay down, dummy! You got a surprise comin’.”

  Jed returned and knelt beside Hank, who was still holding his aching side. He placed a large metal can on the rocky drive. The smell of gasoline was powerful enough to cut through the fog clouding Hank’s head.

  “Now,” Jed told him, “you burn.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE GAS CAN. Jed’s history of causing trouble. The recent fires that had plagued Buckton, including the one Gwen had written about for the newspaper. Even with a muddled head, Hank easily put it all together, though if he hadn’t been able, Jed would’ve been happy to do it for him.

  “That’s right,” the thug said as he removed the lid from the canister. “I’m the one who’s been burnin’ places to the ground. I tell you, seein’ those flames, feelin’ their heat, watchin’ from the shadows as folks cry about losin’ everythin’ they got, it’s powerful stuff. Once you get a taste for it, it’s hard to let go. Like you and drinkin’, I suppose.”

  Jed started to splash gasoline on the walls of Hank’s shop, sloshing it over his work, his livelihood, spilling what was left onto the floor.

  “Up till today, I’ve been real quiet about it,” he continued, flinging the now-empty can toward his car, apparently not wanting to leave it as evidence. “I like to case a place for a while, figure out when folks are home, when they sit down for dinner, that sort of thing. That’s what I was doin’ with you,” Jed explained, nudging Hank with his foot. “I figured you’d be at the hospital, visitin’ your old man. Because believe it or not, I ain’t out to hurt nobody. I just enjoy seein’ things burn. I was gonna do the same to your place, but you bein’ home, sluggin’ me, that done changed things for the worse.”

  “Hey, wait a second,” Sam said, starting to see where things were headed, as if a lightbulb had suddenly gone on over his head. “He’s seen us. He knows what we’ve been doin’. He knows!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jed replied. “He ain’t gonna tell no one.”

  Sam shook his head. “We can’t just take him at his word,” he said, a touch of worry in his voice. “Soon as we leave, he’ll call the cops!”

  Clint chuckled, the smarter of the pair.

  Jed walked over, his shoes crunching in the gravel, and knelt beside Hank. “Remember how I said I ain’t out to hurt nobody?” he said. “For this piece of shit, I’m gonna make an exception.”

  Hank knew exactly what that meant.

  They were going to kill him, then throw his body into the fire to try to make it look like an accident.

  The slower of the two flunkies was still adding it up, slowly realizing that he was about to have blood on his hands. “You never said nothin’ ’bout hurtin’ him,” Sam protested. “I ain’t sure I wanna do this.”

  “Quit bein’ such a damned sissy!” Clint snapped, clearly having no reservations about using the baseball bat clutched in his hands.

  “Like I said, don’t worry about it,” Jed said, sounding surprisingly calm for someone planning to commit murder. “Ain’t no one gonna miss him. Hell, if folks knew what we done, they’d throw us a parade down Main Street.”

  For emphasis, he kicked Hank in the shoulder, a glancing blow, but enough to put him down on his face.

  “What say we get this show on the road?” Jed asked, then pulled a book of matches from his pocket. He scratched one to life and tossed it into a puddle of gasoline, where it instantly caught, sending flames running up the side of the building.

  The workshop was on fire.

  Gwen drove out of Buckton with the radio playing and a soft summer breeze blowing through the open window. She kept thinking about little Kelly Fiderlein, not even an hour old; what an absolutely beautiful day to be born. She chuckled. As strange as it might seem, Gwen realized that she had something in common with Sandy’s baby daughter.

  Her life was at a new beginning, too.

  The truck’s tires passed noisily over the planks of the bridge spanning the Sawyer River. Not long before, Hank had noticed her flailing about in the turbulent water, then had leaped in to save her. From that moment, their lives had become intertwined. What blossomed between them had been as wonderful as it was unexpected.

  She had found love, real love, for the first time.

  Now she just had to make it last.

  Gwen had no way of knowing how people would react when they read tomorrow’s edition of the Bulletin. Many would undoubtedly be shocked, others skeptical, and a few might even be angry to learn they’d been lied to.

  But the only reaction that mattered to Gwen was Hank’s. Would he be mad at her? Relieved? Whatever it was, she silently prayed that it wouldn’t ruin what they had, that he wouldn’t walk away from her. Not now. Not when they were just getting started.

  As she drove up a steep hill, the truck protested, and Gwen had to force the gears into place. She was less than a mile from Hank’s house. The first time she had driven this way, she’d been a bundle of nerves, anxious to talk to her mysterious rescuer. Now, she felt more apprehensive than nervous. Still, Gwen was determined to be honest with him, to tell Hank the truth about
what she’d done.

  Then the cards would have to fall where they may.

  Rounding a gentle bend in the road, Gwen saw something up ahead that made her pulse race. A plume of smoke rose above the treetops, marring an otherwise clear sky. With every frenzied beat of her heart, it seemed to be growing bigger, darker. She couldn’t be certain, but it looked to be coming from near Hank’s home. Deep in her gut, she knew something was wrong.

  Gwen pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

  Flames rose up the workshop’s walls. They raced across the floor. They leaped onto worktables and began to consume chairs, bookcases, dressers, and even tools, anything and everything they touched. Red, orange, and yellow, the fire was a kaleidoscope of destruction. Heat radiated in waves, soon growing unbearably hot. Dark smoke billowed out of the open doors and rose toward the sky.

  And there wasn’t a damned thing Hank could do about it.

  “We gotta get movin’,” Sam said nervously, still unsettled. “Somebody’s gonna see the smoke.”

  “There’s time,” Clint disagreed. “Ain’t nobody comes out this way.”

  Jed pointed at Hank. “Lift him up.”

  Each flunky grabbed an arm and hauled Hank to his feet; Clint never let go of the baseball bat. Slowly but surely, Hank’s head continued to clear. He understood that he had to act fast. He was running out of time.

  Jed grinned, enjoying the carnage he’d wrought. “I’d tell you to say hi to your brother for me,” he snarled over the crackling fire, “but he ain’t gonna be where you’re goin’.” With that, Jed punched Hank in the stomach hard enough to lift him from the ground before he fell back into the gravel.

  But unbeknownst to Jed, Hank wasn’t as hurt as he appeared. He’d known that the bully wouldn’t be able to resist inflicting more pain, and so before the blow landed, he’d tightened the muscles of his stomach. The punch stung, but not nearly as much as it could have.