The Overnighter's Secrets

by J. L. Salter

  Beth yawned hugely and trudged back to her bed, again leaving the door slightly ajar.

  Only moments after her head hit the pillow, she was back asleep.

  ****

  When Shane woke at 7:35, it took a few seconds to get his bearings. He was fully dressed, except for his boots, and he needed the bathroom.

  As he washed his hands at the lavatory, he searched the mirror for clues. They’d been on the couch, where they discussed the February twenty-ninth diary entry. He’d given Bethany the porcelain Phoenix and she got all mushy. Then she’d invited him to stay over, but on the couch. She started a chick flick. About the time Shane figured out the movie had nearly nothing to do with sleeping, he fell asleep.

  Shane paused just outside Bethany’s bedroom, adjacent to the bath. Her door was open a crack and he pushed it sufficiently that he could see her sleeping form. In addition to the tiny nightlight near her bed, morning sunlight peeked around the perimeters of two windows. Shane could make out the swell of her hips under the covers and realized how much he missed touching Bethany. Touching every part of her.

  He had no idea why she’d asked him to stay when she didn’t intend to sleep with him. Bethany had changed. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Bethany seemed to have grown up a bit. Not that she was a child before. She was already a year from graduating college when they’d started dating. But now she seemed to have greater resolve, keener instincts, and more guts. Perhaps that came from the several recent years of coping on her own or maybe it was the awful experience providing such intensive care for her dying brother.

  Bethany seemed to want more of Shane, but he couldn’t figure out how much more, or when. So far, he’d misread a lot of clues. Consequently, he was tip-toeing a lot, quite unlike the old Shane. Yeah, he’d changed a good bit also. But whatever happened, he wanted to get it right this time. Don’t screw it up again. Even though he truly had no shred of insight into what it would take, Shane wanted to please Bethany. Tricky business. He wanted her back in his life, or to be back in her life again. Or perhaps it was something completely different: their lives to be together, with a fresh context?

  But how could Shane please her when he didn’t know what Bethany wanted? He assumed she wanted to be together again, but was afraid to ask outright because there was a looming danger of saying something wrong. What had happened to their ability to read each other? It never used to require so many words, and all the correct phrasing, just to communicate. He used to know what she needed, what she wanted... what he wanted.

  Now he was clueless about her needs and wants... even confused about his own. Chiefly, he wished it could be comfortable again. Simpler. All this complexity! All the conversation. Why couldn’t things still be solved by a roll in the hay?

  Well, whatever else was going on, Shane was hungry. He searched the fridge and cabinets for something he could make. He found coffee and got that dripping. Then he pulled out a carton of eggs. Only four remained. That was enough for him, but what would Bethany eat? Naw... he could share.

  He had two slightly stiff bread slices ready to drop into the toaster when Bethany trudged into the kitchen and smiled.

  “When I smelled breakfast, I thought it was just a lovely dream.” She was still in her cotton nightgown.

  “Maybe not so lovely if I burn these eggs. Not used to a gas range.” With one eye on Bethany’s unfettered bosom, he kept stirring with a wooden spoon and nodded towards the coffee maker. “Java’s ready.”

  “You still make it double strength?”

  Shane shrugged. That was regular potency; everybody else made it half strength.

  She trailed her fingertips across his back as she moved behind him to reach the cabinet with cups. Then she poured a full portion. “You know, the way to a girl’s heart is through her kitchen.” Bethany giggled and took a sip of the coffee. “Yikes.” She dosed it with three packets of artificial sweetener.

  “Never heard that kitchen line. But if this is what it takes, I can handle K.P.” Actually, seeing her in that nightgown—as utilitarian as it was—he was thinking about other routes to her heart.

  Beth managed the toast while Shane finished the eggs. He spent a moment picking out the burned pieces. Gas range.

  ****

  Beth was a natural worrier. Despite too-strong coffee, partly burned eggs, and slightly stale toast, their meal could have been intimate if Beth had not been worrying about what might follow breakfast. What about tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? She couldn’t discern where this was going and realized she needed to know her destinations from now on... at least some of them. “Hop on and ride” wasn’t good enough anymore. Not at age twenty-eight, not with ailing parents. She wanted a roadmap with stops marked along the way, for things like marriage. And, yeah, children. A few certainties would be nice, some milestones she could actually expect to reach. A degree of predictability...

  Neither of them had mentioned how things might be after Ricks was found, when the threat was over... after the overnighter’s mysteries were solved. All this time, Beth had figured Shane would swing his muscular leg over the new bike and ride back to California. Would it be another set of long years before they reunited? Would it require another crisis to bring them together again?

  She wondered what Shane was thinking but was wary of asking. He seemed content to sit in her kitchen and consume a substandard breakfast. Beth didn’t want an argument and felt reluctant to ask Shane any direct questions, like: “Where will you be in another week?” So she tried a different tack. “You know, I’ve been thinking...”

  Shane stopped chewing the stiff toast and looked into her eyes.

  “It almost seems like we’ve kinda pushed a fast forward button—or maybe it’d be rewind... whatever. Like we just pressed a button and zoomed through the long period we weren’t together, and then... maybe we each start thinking we can just pick things up right where we left them three years ago.”

  He’d started to take another sip of coffee, but lowered the mug to the tabletop. “Can’t we?”

  Beth placed her hand on his strong forearm. “I don’t know, Shane. I wish we’d never broken up…or whatever you’d call it. Went different ways, I guess. But we did and nothing changes that. And now, I don’t know if I feel strong enough to let myself fall back in love with you.”

  Shane looked like a German Shepherd that just got smacked by a rolled up newspaper. “I didn’t know how to handle that, uh, separation... and I’m sure I screwed up a lot of ways. But I never stopped loving you, Bethany.”

  She nodded but didn’t speak. A few scattered tears fell onto the slightly burned eggs she hadn’t eaten.

  Shane covered her hand with his own. “Do you want to love me again?”

  After a long silence, with quivering lips: “I don’t actually know.”

  Shane slid his arm away slowly, leaving her hand on the table. Then he quietly pushed back his chair and stood. “Should I just leave... ?”

  Beth’s mouth formed the inaudible word “no”. She made no effort to mop away her tears.

  “Well, I don’t know what to do, Bethany.”

  She rose from the front edge of her chair and melted into him. He held her close, tightly, as she sobbed into his firm chest. They stood that way for several long minutes and neither spoke.

  “I know I want to be with you, Bethany... for certain. Everything else is too confusing.” He waited for a reply, but there was none. “I also want to be here,” he pointed toward the cottage floor, “but I’m not gonna sleep on your couch again.”

  Beth pulled away from his arms to dab tissue at her eyes. She looked toward the couch with the crumpled blanket part-way on the floor. She couldn’t address this overnight issue right now. Maybe they could settle it tomorrow. For now, she’d have to deflect. Beth cleared her throat softly. “Well, I usually go visit my parents on Sundays... might be back real late tonight anyway.”

  Shane looked wounded. With good reason. After a short silence, he spoke even
ly: “We don’t have to settle everything right now. First priority is getting Ricks out of our lives... one way or the other. We can hardly see each other with him in between us.”

  Beth nodded and mopped at her swollen eyes.

  “I’ve got one more strategy about getting him where we want him... and if it doesn’t work, then I’ll have to fold.”

  “I thought you’d already searched the entire town.”

  “I have. So I need to get Ricks to come looking for me.”

  “How?”

  “Haven’t worked it out completely, but I know it involves Cratchit.”

  “The old coot at the bar?”

  Shane nodded. “Since I found out that Cratchit’s been playing both sides, I’ve been trying to figure how to use that to our advantage.”

  “And... ?”

  “An idea might be crawling around in my brain.”

  Beth reached around his body again and pressed into his chest. “Find him, Shane. And when you do... kick his butt.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Afternoon

  Senator Joe Fitch looked out of his fifth floor campaign office’s window upon downtown Nashville’s busy Fourth Avenue. He leased a modest suite one year at a time, beginning about ten months before each election. This was his sixth lease and sixth different suite. He kept all campaign functions completely separate from his state business at the Capitol. Not only was it state law, it was also his ethical preference.

  He’d had a full head of dark brown hair when he began serving in the State Legislature but now he’d gone all white. For his age he was still handsome, or at least his wife Laura said so, but he needed to lose twenty-five pounds. Difficult to exercise with state business and a campaign to run.

  Fitch was worried: more than during his initial Senate campaign, after two terms in the state House. Facing political opponents he already knew was his forte; he could duke it out over issues and voting records. But facing an opponent whose only public recognition related to society pages... well, that was way out of his league. Plus, a gentleman never fights with a lady. Even if Nancy was no lady.

  Fitch had heard the buzz about presumed skeletons in Durocher’s closet long before one of his campaign aides showed him the video bite which hit the local news the day before. The station which filmed it had shown that clip in nearly every news broadcast since Saturday afternoon. “Read my lips.” Nobody with any sense would use that line after the Democrats skewered the first George Bush over saying it.

  His trusted campaign manager had been down this road with Fitch for every race he’d run. They knew each other like brothers. Dean had insisted on hiring what he called a “woman consultant”. Fitch had resisted for a while, but was finally convinced: to get in the ring with Durocher, he needed someone who could gauge how his parries and footwork would play with female voters. Would they automatically side with a woman facing a male incumbent? Or could Fitch frame the contest on actual issues, about which individual female voters could make intelligent and independent decisions?

  That was Sharon’s job: to advise Fitch on how hard to punch and which areas of The Nancy to stay away from. The last thing he needed was a women’s organization crying foul that Fitch had used a sexist word, or displayed a chauvinistic expression, or done anything else they could interpret as demeaning or dismissive. That was a narrow tightrope to tread upon.

  Before he’d reluctantly agreed to let Dean bring Sharon on board, Fitch insisted that she sit down with his wife. Not only did Fitch want and need Laura’s reaction to Sharon’s possible hiring, but he had to be certain Laura would have no problems with him hiring an attractive female consultant.

  Laura gave Sharon’s hiring an enthusiastic thumbs-up and the consultant joined their team during the spring. Sharon had worked closely with all the paid advertising, direct-mail flyers, campaign stops, photo ops, and in periodic negotiations about a potential debate. The Durocher team had steadfastly refused a formal debate on the issues but whenever asked by reporters about a debate, Nancy, or her campaign manager, blamed Fitch for ducking her. Their M.O. seemed to be taking those kinds of guerilla potshots with vague allusions to things which somehow sounded negative but had so little substance that nobody, including reporters, truly knew what Durocher was talking about. And whenever pressed to give details, Team Nancy always changed the subject. Of course, none of Nancy’s sound bites had the slightest grain of truth, but they were still effective: they got a flash of media attention but never allowed Fitch an opportunity to respond unless he made a big deal of mentioning it later. Nancy’s camp obviously wanted him to dig away at his own grave, but he and Dean wouldn’t play their distorted game.

  Those thoughts were on Fitch’s mind when Dean knocked and entered, followed by Sharon. Fitch remained standing at the window but motioned for them to sit.

  “Joe, there’s a lot of buzz about something from Durocher’s camp... an October surprise.”

  “I know.” Fitch waved it away. “I’ve heard.”

  “We’re running pretty close to the wire, Joe. We certainly ought to have counter measures in place.”

  No reply from the window. About the worst they could come up with was that Fitch usually took a Mulligan on the first tee.

  “Senator, your opponent has been getting a free pass to say just about anything she wants.” Sharon motioned vaguely to a folder on her lap. “And we’re afraid some of it might stick in the voters’ minds.”

  “Nothing she’s said is true.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Joe. If we don’t counter any of it, the voter can assume it might be real.”

  “I know you started this campaign worried about appearing to bully a female opponent.” Sharon cleared her throat. “But I think, and Dean agrees… that you’re playing Nancy too soft. She’s taking advantage of your hands being tied. She’s tossed out nearly a dozen zingers and we haven’t shot down any of them.”

  Fitch moved back toward his desk and leaned an elbow on the high back of his chair. “I’m playing flag football and Nancy’s in pads playing tackle.”

  Sharon nodded. “But that’s another example of a word you can’t use.”

  The senator was puzzled.

  “Pads. If you said that on camera, Nancy’s camp would roast your chestnuts.”

  Dean agreed. “Joe, we all know it’s not fair...”

  “So you understand why I’m not making any comments about her wild inferences.”

  “Yes, Senator... but she’s gaining ground every time you don’t.”

  “Joe, it’s like the gods of politics came up with your perfect opponent: no record on issues, no applicable experience... total blank slate. So there’s nothing to criticize except those three things... and her camp has somehow managed to spin those negatives into pretend planks of her platform.”

  “She wouldn’t recognize a platform if her country club tea social was being served on it.”

  Dean continued: “She’s so protected by gender that she’s getting a waiver on issues and experience. And we’re allowing it, Joe. In fact, we’re actually abetting it.”

  Fitch glared briefly, though not at his loyal friend. “I don’t know how to handle her.”

  “You’ve seen her read my lips clip.” Dean shifted restlessly in his seat. “Well, it’s all extremely vague, but everybody who knows anything at all about Durocher does believe there’s a skeleton.”

  The senator sat wearily, leaned back the chair, and closed his eyes.

  “Joe, there might have been a body.”

  Fitch’s eyes opened. “Figurative or literal?”

  “The way I hear it... this was a cold blood murder.” Dean looked toward Sharon for confirmation.

  “You’re not talking a... contemporary killing, are you?” Fitch leaned his forearms on the desk edge.

  Dean scratched the back of his head. “Some relation of hers, maybe back in the Wild West days or something. The info’s real fuzzy.”

  “But that’s old history... well ov
er a hundred years ago. And even if it’s true that some kinfolk—many generations back—murdered somebody... that’s got nothing to do with the witch Nancy.” Fitch checked his watch; he had to chair a committee meeting early in the morning and wanted to spend some time at home with Laura that evening. “I want to run this campaign with some principle, Dean. If it’s legitimate news about something Nancy’s done…or some crime she’s abetted…then I’ll consider using it. But nothing about any ancestors.”

  Dean started to rise.

  Sharon kept her seat. “Senator, if Durocher were a man, would you press forward on this?”

  Fitch’s head began moving sideways before he spoke. “No, Sharon, don’t think so. None of us can be responsible for anything our forebears did. Whether good or bad. If it was good, we can be proud to be kin to them. If it was bad, we probably wish we didn’t know about it. But neither way does it reflect on us.”

  “Joe, I don’t believe the voters think that way.”

  “Dean, you know me well enough to understand I mean this.” He paused before phrasing. “I’d rather lose the office than win an election by fighting dirty.”

  “Senator, there’s no statute of limitation for murder, is there?” Sharon.

  Despite the stress and fatigue, Fitch actually smiled. “A cold case of a few years back is one thing. But vague rumors of some hot headed ancestor are completely different. Plus, that murderer would be long dead by now. Anyhow, like I said, unless Nancy herself killed somebody, I’m not interested.”

  “But, Joe, what if Nancy thinks you’re interested in some old, bad news... and she’s actively trying to cover it up?”

  The senator’s eyes grew wider and he turned toward the consultant. “Sharon, would you give me a minute with Dean?” Fitch waited until she’d closed the door behind her and then motioned Dean back down in his chair. His trusted aide obviously had a lot more information that he hadn’t yet shared. “Depends. How bad was it? And what’s Nancy doing to cover it up?”