After Darke

by Heather MacAllister

  He’d probably never see her again, and the knowledge left a hole in a place within him that he’d never known was empty.

  After walking the streets awhile longer, he decided to go into the witness security program. He had nowhere safe to go here. Whether or not he accepted the protection, he knew he’d have to leave New York, and since that was the case, he might as well go somewhere he wanted to go. Maybe Chicago.

  Inevitably, his wanderings drew him back to his apartment. If he was going to disappear, then there were things he wanted to take with him. Keeping in the shadows, Jaron watched the street. After several minutes, he slipped away and walked around the block, approaching from the other direction. He saw nothing. Still, he stayed in the shadows for nearly forty-five minutes, watching the traffic, waiting for the people who owned the parked cars to get in and drive away.

  And still he waited, leaving to get a cup of coffee at a place three blocks away that he’d never been to before. He returned, staying out of sight, sipping his coffee and watching the building.

  By the time he finished his coffee, Jaron was convinced that there was no one watching for him. Why should there be? It had been weeks. They’d probably given up.

  Turning up the collar of his jacket, he remembered what Bonnie had said about changing the way he walked. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he hunched over, shuffling every once in a while.

  Jaron’s apartment building had no doorman. It relied on coded keys and two security keypads. And then, to gain access to the elevator, tenants had to key in yet another series of numbers. Jaron had always found it a bit of a pain, but not anymore.

  Once he got into the elevator, he relaxed, but when it opened he checked the hallway before getting out, not that he’d know what to do if he did see someone. Unlocking his apartment, he slipped inside, leaned against the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Home. It was the first time he’d been back since he’d left to pick up Bonnie for the never-ending date.

  He didn’t dare turn on any lamps, but decided he could risk opening the blinds just enough for the street light to shine through. He stared down at the street, but noticed nothing unusual.

  It was after he turned around that he saw the man sitting in his chair.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE MAN IN THE CHAIR had a shiny gun pointed right at him. “Mr. Darke?”

  Jaron didn’t know whether it was better to be himself or not.

  The man flipped on the table lamp and squinted at him, then consulted a picture. He had dark auburn hair.

  Jaron was toast.

  “Could you cover part of your chin?”

  “Yes, I’m Jaron Darke.” If he was going to go out, let him go out with dignity.

  “Mr. McDormand will be very happy to hear that.”

  In the moment the man’s eyes met his, everything became crystal clear for Jaron. He loved the city, but he loved Bonnie more, and he wouldn’t be happy anywhere, even here, without her.

  What fabulous timing for a defining moment. Bonnie would appreciate the irony—and she would never know. It made him angry that she would never know, angry at redheaded mobsters and angry at himself. “I have a final request.”

  The man was punching a number on a cell phone. “Sure, shoot.”

  Must be mob humor. “I’d like to write a letter.”

  Using the gun, the man waved Jaron over to his work desk. “Go for it.”

  “Really?” He didn’t want to turn around and get shot in the back of the head or anything.

  The man was already speaking into the phone, so Jaron grabbed a piece of paper out of his printer and a cheap giveaway ballpoint from the newspaper, and began to write. A farewell note of this magnitude deserved to be written with his 1922 Montblanc 6 on engraved Crane writing paper, but he didn’t want to ask. He was already astounded at getting this reprieve. He wasn’t current on mob assassination rules, but he hadn’t expected to find hit men so reasonable.

  Jaron wrote as he’d never written before, pouring out his heart to Bonnie, afraid that if he stopped to think, his time would be up. Above all, he didn’t want her blaming herself—not that she had anything to blame herself for, but women always found something. He tried to put into words the inexpressible—his feelings as he’d made love to her. Had it been just that afternoon? In trying to describe the wonder of it all, Jaron was afraid he’d purpled his prose, and actually considered whether he really wanted this to be his last piece of writing. But it was too late now. He’d turned the paper over and was running out of room. He wrote smaller and smaller, trying to delay the moment when he’d have to reach for another piece and the man would tell him that was enough and then shoot him. But Jaron needed to address an envelope. How could they get the note to Bonnie if they didn’t know her name...? No wonder they were letting him write this letter! It was a trap, and would lead them right to Bonnie.

  He flipped over the paper and scribbled out her name from the “My dearest Bonnie” salutation. Maybe they’d leave the letter in his apartment for the police to find or—

  Across the top of the page, Jaron wrote, “For my mother.” Then he added, “Give it to her.” He hoped that the red-haired man would think that Jaron wanted him to give the note to Jaron’s mother, but his mother would read it and know it wasn’t for her, and would understand she was to give the note to Bonnie.

  Jaron was uncomfortable at the thought that his mother would read what he’d written to Bonnie, but by that time he would have died from something other than embarrassment.

  He had to end the letter and wrote simply, “I may not have known it for long, but thank you for teaching me what true love really is.”

  Imagining Bonnie’s reaction when she read that almost made him tear up.

  Jaron carefully folded the letter and left it on his desk, then turned to face the man in the chair. The gun was still pointed right at him.

  “Is that where you write your columns?”

  A fan! Maybe he could play on that. “Yes. Do you read my column?”

  “No.”

  Jaron was glad he hadn’t offered to autograph a photo for the man.

  The silence stretched between the two of them. Jaron was about to go insane from wondering when the end would come, when there was a knock at the door. He looked at the man.

  “Yeah, go answer it.”

  This was Jaron’s chance. His only chance. He’d open the door and he’d run as he’d never run before. He’d launch himself down the stairs and hope he’d get enough of a head start to dodge the bullets.

  Adrenaline spurting through him, Jaron opened the door without even checking the peephole, ready to escape.

  And came face-to-face with Seamus McDormand. Surprise made Jaron hesitate, and the moment was lost, especially since the space behind Seamus was taken up by two very large men.

  “Mr. Darke, it’s good to see you again.” Seamus shook Jaron’s rather moist hand.

  “Please come in.” Jaron wanted to kick himself for being polite at a time like this.

  “Thank you.” Seamus and his two pieces of “muscle” entered and sat. Rather, Seamus sat and the muscles stood ominously by. “Now, are you writing a book?”

  And that would pretty much be the last thing Jaron thought the mob kingpin would say. “No. But I could.”

  “Ach.” Seamus pursed his mouth and shook his head. “I understand that you witnessed some unpleasantness after dinner at Lorenzo’s.”

  “I was there, yes.”

  “Sonny was a hothead.” Jaron noticed he spoke in the past tense. “He’d act without thinking things through. When you’re a hothead, you shouldn’t be thinking. You should let others think for you.”

  Jaron nodded, aware that he was being given some information, but had no idea of the significance.


  Seamus regarded him and must have picked up on Jaron’s cluelessness. “That night, nobody was thinking for Sonny. Sonny was mad ’cause the decorator he thought was a flou-flou had been boinking his wife and daughter. You may have noticed that I was trying to calm him down.”

  “Absolutely. I did notice that.”

  Seamus spread his hands. “And then the unpleasantness.” He shook his head. “Naturally, you told the police what you saw.”

  “Naturally.”

  “It’s a citizen’s duty to report unpleasantness, that I understand. You’re to be commended.”

  Jaron didn’t want to be commended. “It was nothing, really.”

  “And it distresses me that you felt you had to go on...” He snapped his fingers.

  “Sabbatical,” supplied the man with the gun. “It’s a fancy word for vacation. I looked it up.”

  Seamus quelled him with a glance. “The thing is, you haven’t been writing your columns. I don’t like that old stuff. I’ve already read it.”

  “I didn’t have much choice. There was unpleasantness the next day, as well.”

  Seamus shook his head. “I heard about that. You know, the thing about hotheads is that they’re accident-prone. Sonny had just such an accident.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about it.” And he was, because Seamus could only be telling him all this if he thought Jaron wouldn’t be around to tell the police.

  “So was I, but these things happen. The point now is that Sonny is no longer with us. He won’t be around to engage in personal, unauthorized activities that have nothing to do with me.”

  “It must be a great relief to you.”

  “It is, I can tell you. So...” He slapped his hands on his knees. “I apologize that you were inconvenienced by one of my associates, even though it had nothing to do with me.”

  “You weren’t even there,” Jaron said.

  “I was as surprised as you.” He shook his head. “But that’s in the past. You don’t have a problem with me, I don’t have a problem with you. You can come back from your vacation now and write your columns.”

  It took several beats for Jaron to realize that Seamus was giving him back his life. When he did, he tried very, very hard not to get down on his knees and weep at the man’s feet. “I, uh, am going to do that. In fact, I have ideas for several columns already sketched out.”

  “That reminds me.” Seamus removed a card from his breast pocket. “Here’s a singer you should hear. I’ll read what you think about her in your column.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do that.” Jaron didn’t have to hear the singer; he could write the column now. She would have the voice of an angel.

  Seamus stood, so Jaron did, too. “Also, please convey my apologies to your lovely dinner companion. Will you be seeing her again?”

  “Yes.” And then, because he was feeling buoyant with the relief of one who has been given a second chance at life, Jaron added, “I’m going to marry her.”

  A grin split Seamus’s face. “Are you, now. Congratulations. Send me an invitation to the wedding.”

  Jaron made sure he kept his own smile in place. “Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  “Leave it at Lorenzo’s.” Seamus winked at him and then he and his “associates” left. Backing up, the man with the gun kept it pointed at Jaron until they were all in the hallway.

  Jaron closed the door and his knees threatened to give way. Water, he needed water. No, vodka. No—water and vodka.

  He staggered to the kitchen and gulped a glass of water straight from the tap, no ice. He swigged vodka out of the bottle the same way. His tongue caught fire, so he put it out with more tepid water.

  He screwed the cap back on the vodka bottle. No more, though he could probably drink the rest of the bottle without getting drunk, such was the amount of adrenaline coursing through his body.

  He was home. He was free. He could sleep in his own bed. Jaron collapsed onto the sofa and leaned his head back. Oh, the relief. And then he thought about the letter he’d written when he’d expected each word could be his last. It was there on the desk, and he got up and unfolded it.

  Bonnie. He loved Bonnie. And she didn’t know it yet.

  He had to go to her. He didn’t care about sleeping in his own bed in his own apartment in a noisy, smelly city.

  He had to get home to Bonnie.

  * * *

  BONNIE OPENED THE DOOR to Maureen’s office and slumped into a chair.

  “Have you found him yet?” Maureen’s face had been white ever since they’d discovered Jaron was missing.

  Bonnie’s face was green—she’d seen it in the mirror. She shook her head. Where could he have gone? “And you can tell them that I’m not going into any protection program without talking to him first.”

  “Oh, Bonnie.” Maureen looked as if she wanted to cry, only Maureen never cried. “The man who was here asking questions—he’s not a social worker from New Hampshire. We don’t know who he is. I’ve sent the glass to Quigg, but I hope that man didn’t have anything to do with Jaron’s disappearance.”

  Bonnie thought she was going to be physically sick, and leaned toward the wastebasket. She’d been awake all night and had come to the decision that she’d rather be miserable with Jaron than without him. Only he wasn’t around for her to tell, so she was being extra miserable without him.

  What should she do? The deadline set by the marshals was this morning. What if Jaron had been... She couldn’t think about that.

  Not telling her parents had been horrible. The one thing she could tell them was how much she loved Jaron, and even then she had to call him Jay.

  “Bonnie?” Maureen nodded to the window.

  A long black Town Car drove up the oak-lined drive. The last time Bonnie had seen a Town Car, somebody had been shot.

  “You stay here,” Maureen instructed. “Don’t come out whatever you hear.”

  Bonnie really, really was going to be sick.

  The car drove up and parked out of sight of the office window. Bonnie paced and tried listening at the door. She could hear a low murmuring of voices, but nothing that sounded like distress.

  Maureen was taking forever. What could be going on? Bonnie was about to ignore her instructions when footsteps approached. There was nowhere to hide except behind the desk, and that would be the first place anyone would look.

  “She’s in here,” a voice said, and then the door opened.

  Jaron walked in, wearing his black Jaron clothes.

  Bonnie squealed and launched herself at him, firing questions in between kissing him. “Where have you been?” She kissed him so he couldn’t answer. “I was so worried. I didn’t want to go into the program without you.” She kissed him again. “I don’t care where I go as long as I can be with you!”

  This time when she kissed him, he held her head until she relaxed and moaned and leaned into the kiss. When he broke it, Jaron pressed his finger against her lips. “We don’t have to go into the program.”

  “We don’t? Why not?”

  “I went to New York last night—”

  “Jaron!”

  “—and Seamus McDormand paid me a visit at my apartment.”

  She stared in horror. “You might have been killed!”

  “Yes, I might have been. I wrote you a letter telling you all about it. Sometime you’ll have to read it.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Well, basically, with Sonny gone, Seamus wanted me to know that he had no beef with me and he was tired of reading column reruns.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. And he sends you his regards. I asked him to the wedding.”

  “What wedding?”

  “Ours.” A corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Marry me, Bonnie?�
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  “You asked a mobster to our wedding before you asked me to our wedding?”

  “Yes.” Jaron nodded. “It seemed like a prudent idea at the time.”

  “What if I say no?”

  “Then there won’t be a wedding, and when he doesn’t get an invitation, he’ll think I’ve insulted him and he’ll hunt me down.”

  “In other words, I hold your life in my hands.”

  Jaron took her hands, turned them upward and kissed each palm before curling her fingers over the spot. “You do anyway. I love you.”

  Bonnie’s heart melted. “Of course I’ll marry you! I’ve been in love with you ever since you pushed that scone in my mouth.”

  He laughed and pressed his forehead to hers. “I’d better write down that recipe so I never forget it.”

  “But where are we going to live?”

  “The city is part of who I am,” Jaron said. “And I know that Cooper’s Corner is part of who you are, so I say we live in both places. There’s no rule that says we can have only one home, is there?”

  “Well, if there is, then I say we break it.”

  “Actually, there’s another rule—this will be a chintz-free marriage.”

  “You’re invoking the chintz clause?”

  Jaron nodded.

  “Well, if you’re invoking the chintz clause, then I’m invoking the no-goatee clause.”

  “Hey!”

  “Because I like kissing you so much better without it.” And Bonnie spent a good long while proving it.

  EPILOGUE

  AS A SYMBOL of their compromise, Bonnie got her simple fall wedding in the Cooper’s Corner village church and Jaron got an exclusively elegant reception in New York.

  It was the end of October and the leaves were still brilliant on the bright day when Bonnie married Jaron in front of the entire village of Cooper’s Corner, as well as her aunt Cokie, Jaron’s mother, some of his closest friends and a pewful of redheaded men who arrived immediately prior and vanished immediately after the ceremony. The New York delegation wore their interpretation of country wedding casual and were outdressed by the villagers.