Next Comes Love

by Helen Brenna

  Holding Jason’s hand, Erica stepped into the apartment. The place smelled old with hints of linoleum and cement in the stale, slightly musty air. There was one large front room, combining kitchen, dining and living space. It was sparsely furnished with only a battered oak kitchen table, an old couch, a TV, two chairs that had seen better days and a coffee table that had been strategically placed to hide part of a stain in the worn brown carpet.

  Positives. There had to be a few.

  She reminded herself that it came cheap, and it seemed safe. As far as she could tell there was only one way up to the apartments, and the metal steps leading to the second floor were noisy. Very likely she’d hear someone coming long before he reached her front door. At least the place, other than the storm damage, looked clean.

  “Thanks, Arlo.” Erica glanced at Jason. “This’ll be great, right?”

  He didn’t respond, but simply stuck to her side as he glanced doubtfully around.

  “Guess I need to turn on a few things.” With fatherlike concern—at least how Erica imagined a father might act since she’d never known hers—Arlo walked around the apartment, plugging in lamps, turning on the refrigerator and lighting the pilot on the water heater. He pointed at a telephone on the kitchen counter. “That line won’t work ’til you get it reconnected.” He sniffed the air. “Crack a couple of windows and that oughtta take care of the staleness. Lynnie usually leaves clean linens in the hall closet.”

  She followed him around, listening as he explained how everything worked. If she’d been alone and responsible only for herself, she wouldn’t have even bothered making one of those beds before curling up and sleeping. The last few days of zigzagging through Minnesota and Wisconsin had been nothing short of a nightmare. She’d snatched little more than catnaps in the car since yesterday afternoon.

  Outside the bathroom, she found the closet and another door. She jiggled the knob and found it locked. “Where does this lead?”

  “To the restaurant kitchen downstairs.”

  “Is it always locked?”

  “There’s a dead bolt on the other side.”

  Which meant if she unbolted the other side of this door, Jason could get downstairs if he needed her. It also meant if an undesirable got in downstairs, he could, theoretically, get into this apartment. “I need a chain put on this side,” she said, realizing too late how demanding she sounded. “I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  Arlo nodded. “I don’t see why not. I’ll have it taken care of this weekend.” He handed her the keys. “Guess we’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”

  “Arlo?”

  “Ayep.”

  “Is there a grocery store on the island?”

  “Newman’s on Main.” He pointed to his left. “Couple blocks west of the pub.”

  “Where’s the school?”

  “Up past the church. On the east side.” He pointed in the other direction toward the ferry pier. “I hear some of the young couples say it’s a small, but good school.” He smiled at her and patted Jason’s head. “If your work schedule puts you in a pinch with the boy, let me know. He can always come up to the stables and help me out with the horses.”

  Jason’s head shot up and interest flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything.

  Why would this man offer to help? He didn’t know her, didn’t owe her a thing. She struggled with something appropriate to say, then finally settled on a quiet, “Thank you.”

  As soon as Arlo disappeared down the steps, she bolted the front door, latched the chain and checked the locks on the windows. For the first time in days, she felt as if she could breathe. The smile she felt forming on her face wasn’t the least bit forced for Jason’s sake. “Let’s go check out the kitchen.”

  Cooking had always been an outlet for pent-up energy for Erica, so not having a kitchen to mess around in had about killed her. She opened a few cupboards to find mismatched plates, cups and silverware. The state of the pots and pans, flea-market finds at best, almost brought a tear to her eye when she thought of the set of professional cookware she’d left back at her own apartment. And the knives? They probably hadn’t seen a decent edge for years.

  “Nothing fancy, but we’ll live,” she murmured.

  Next, she and Jason walked down the hall and found two bedrooms, each with a bare double bed, bedside table and dresser. The bathroom was barely large enough for the two of them to stand side by side. Hard water stains ringed the sink, and the toilet looked like a throwback from the ’50s.

  This was nothing like the house with a backyard and swing set that Jason had left behind along with all of his friends, but they were both going to have to make the best of this new home for a short while.

  Home. This little boy wasn’t the only one who’d left his life behind. She’d woken up one morning same as always, and a single phone call had changed everything. In a matter of a few hours, she’d had to leave her apartment, her friends, her job, her life. For this. And for how long? A week, a month, longer?

  Where the hell are you, Marie? Call me. Dammit.

  “Well?” She took Jason’s hands and swung her arms. “What do you think?”

  “How long do we have to stay here?”

  “As long as it takes, kiddo.”

  AFTER A QUICK TRIP to the island’s sadly lacking grocery store for a few items—Erica hadn’t the energy for more—she whipped up a stir-fry back at their new apartment and she and Jason ate while watching some silly sitcom. Less than a half an hour after the warm food hit his stomach, Jason fell sound asleep on the couch.

  She found a couple of old-fashioned chenille bedspreads along with sheets and towels wrapped in plastic in the hall closet, quietly made both beds, and then carried Jason down to one of the rooms. Like an overdone noodle, he hung limp in her arms and didn’t even crack open an eye as she laid him down and took off his shoes.

  Pulling the covers over him, she waited a moment to make sure he’d stay asleep and then snuck out of the room, leaving the door open only a few inches. She went back to the TV, turned down the volume and flipped to a national headline news station. Half an hour later, she turned the TV off. Nothing. No mention of Jason or Marie.

  Antsy now, Erica paced in the living room. If she’d been back home, she’d still be at work. After work, she’d have grabbed a beer or something to eat with coworkers, maybe even hit a club or two. Some loud music and dancing sounded good right about now to let off some steam, but this wasn’t Chicago.

  Maybe Marie had left a message. Erica went to the kitchen counter, drew her cell phone from her purse and turned it on. Nothing new. Maybe her half sister had finally wisened up and left that sonofabitch of a husband and was in hiding. Cop or no cop, Erica’d had a bad feeling about Billy Samson from the moment he’d convinced Marie to marry him right out of high school. For years, Erica had tried talking her sister into leaving him, but Marie had always been quick to defend her husband. Maybe something had finally happened. A last straw. Some sanity. Erica had been fine without a man all these years. Marie would’ve done fine, too.

  Maybe there was something she’d missed in her sister’s voice mail. She pulled up her saved messages and listened.

  “I know I haven’t kept in touch the way I should have, Erica. I’m so, so sorry.” Marie’s voice came over the cell phone, sounding emotional and rushed. “I need your help and there’s no one else I can go to. Please. Pick up Jason from school. Meet me at Charlie’s at two o’clock. I’ll be able to get away easier once I know Jason is safe.”

  There was a long pause and then, “If I don’t show,” she whispered, her voice now panicked, “leave. Get out of town. Go someplace safe. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t—don’t—use your cell phone. I’ll call and leave a message when I can. Whatever you do, take care of Jason.” She paused again. “Safe and sound, Rick. Keep him safe and sound.”

  The line went abruptly dead, as if Marie was in a hurry. There was nothing else. No clues for Erica. No secret code, no hidden meaning
.

  Safe and sound. Those were the words Erica had always whispered to Marie when they’d been kids and scared and hugging each other. During storms or after nightmares. When their mother hadn’t come home at night, or when she’d come home with another man.

  The fact that Marie had used a childhood nickname for the first time in many, many years had tugged at Erica in a way she hadn’t expected. She’d dropped everything and done exactly as Marie had asked, and when her sister hadn’t shown up at the restaurant they used to meet at for lunch now and again—luncheons that had gotten less and less frequent after Marie had gotten married—she’d ordered Jason a burger, fries and a chocolate shake and waited.

  When four o’clock came and went, Erica, again, did exactly what her sister had asked. She had taken Jason and left. They’d driven north out of Chicago and hadn’t looked back. Running away had gone against her every instinct, but there’d been no other option.

  Whatever you do, take care of Jason.

  Dammit! The last place she wanted to be was here babysitting. She didn’t know how to take care of any child, let alone a boy frightened of his own shadow. She should be in Chicago, finding and helping Marie.

  Oh, God, Marie. Where are you? I told you this was going to happen. I told you and you wouldn’t listen to me. You defended that asshole. Why?

  Since she’d left that Chicago restaurant, Erica had held it firmly together. She’d refused to let Jason see the fear in her heart. Now, she shook with all the impotence and anger and let the tears fall. Hugging herself, she fell back against the wall and cried.

  After a long while, she wiped her cheeks dry and straightened her shoulders. Okay, you had your little falling apart. Now do something. Do it.

  She flicked open her cell phone and ran through the list of saved numbers. She was about to connect to her sister’s cell when Marie’s warning flashed through her mind. Don’t use your cell phone. Until she knew more about what was going on she had to trust her sister’s instincts.

  Erica snapped the phone closed, quietly snuck down the stairs and ran through the alley to the pay phone she’d noticed earlier on the street.

  The night was dark, quiet. In Chicago, with the constant glow of the city the stars always seemed to look faded, as if a hazy wash had been painted over the sky. Up here, the sky was a sea of black velvet pinpricked with brilliance.

  She reached the cobblestone street, and hesitated as the light from Duffy’s, as well as a couple other restaurants, spilled onto the sidewalk. Several lampposts illuminated the street.

  She shoved some money into the pay phone, dialed into her cell phone account and waited. Four messages sat in her in-box. The first one was from her boss, wondering why she hadn’t shown up for work and the second two were from coworkers asking, surprisingly, if she needed help. She hadn’t thought they’d had that kind of relationship. They hung out sometimes after work, but she’d never thought of them as friends. Her instincts had her wanting to call at least one of them back, but she couldn’t.

  The last message was a hang-up for which the number had been blocked. Could that have been Marie? No, she would’ve left a message.

  Erica shoved more money into the phone, blocked the number and dialed Marie’s cell phone. It rang several times before a click sounded as if the call had been answered, but instead of a customary acknowledgment there was silence on the other end of the line. Complete and eerie silence.

  Don’t trust anyone. Erica held her breath. It took everything in her not to whisper her sister’s name.

  “Erica?” Finally, a man spoke over the line. “Is that you?” It was Billy. His voice, too slow and too deep, as if he were trying to convince himself he had things under control had always driven her crazy. “Where the hell are you?” he asked. “Where’s Marie?”

  Where’s Marie? What the—?

  Her heart hammering in her chest, Erica disconnected the call and glanced nervously around. She was alone. She looked up a number on her cell and dialed on the pay phone.

  After several rings, the call was connected. “Yo.” A man’s gravelly voice sounded over the line.

  “Teddy? It’s Erica Corelli.” She paused, hoping like hell he’d remember her. He’d been the only one of her mother’s boyfriends she could remember with any affection. “Yeah, I know it’s been a long time. I need your help.”

  THERE WAS NO WAY Billy was going to be able to trace that call, but he would’ve bet anything it had been Marie’s sister quietly listening on the other end.

  Dammit! He snapped his wife’s cell phone closed and glanced out his car window up to the top corner of the apartment building, looking for movement. From this vantage point, parked in shadows on the dark street, he could see it all, the illuminated parking lot and front and rear entrances. Near as he could tell, Erica hadn’t been home since she’d signed out Jason from school.

  Even her car, a relatively new, black, two-door sports coupe hadn’t been moved from its parking spot directly under the lamppost. The restaurant folks had said she hadn’t shown up for work, either. This was so unlike her, they’d said, all worried and concerned.

  He’d give them worried, all right, once he got his hands on Erica. Why the hell had Marie listed her sister as the emergency contact at school anyway? Just thinking about it got him worked up. No one took what belonged to him. No one. The kid was already halfway to a momma’s boy, having spent way too much time with Marie. The last thing Jason needed was more one on one with another weak-kneed Corelli.

  Then again, that Erica had always been stronger and smarter than her little sister. Seemed like whenever Marie spent time with Erica, she’d come home with all kinds of ideas, getting on his case about this and that.

  His blood boiled thinking about it. Damn her, but she knew how to push his buttons. Day and night. Until he knocked her back into shape. Marie should’ve been glad he’d limited her visits with her sister. Unfortunately, that meant he now knew very little about Erica. She could cook, and that was about all he knew from the few holiday meals they’d shared, but Billy had no clue where the damned woman would go to hide or who she’d turn to for help.

  A pair of headlights came around the corner, and the car pulled into the parking lot. A guy got out and headed toward the apartment’s security door. This was it. Time for Billy to take some precautions.

  He double-timed it toward the building entrance and caught the front door before it swung closed. Avoiding the elevator, Billy climbed the stairs to the third floor. He used the key he’d found in Marie’s things and let himself into Erica’s apartment. Then he went from one dark room to the next, searching for anything that might clue him in to where she’d gone.

  The place looked clean with no sign of last-minute packing. That meant Erica had done something very few people could manage. With nothing more than the clothes on her back, she’d left and didn’t bother with a backward glance. Smart and strong. She might prove tough to find.

  After carefully going through a small file cabinet, he located a bank statement and wrote down the account number. Same with the credit card and cell phone. He doubted she’d be stupid enough to use any of it, but he had to cover his bases.

  Then he stood in the middle of each room and looked around. There had to be something here that would lead him to her. After carefully digging through closets, the medicine cabinet, in the back of kitchen cupboards, under the bed and finally her bedside table, he found nothing except for the spare key to her car.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the framed photo on the bedside table. Marie, Erica and Annette, their mother. It’d been taken only a few years before Annette had died. As far as he knew, Marie and Erica had no surviving relatives, and their fathers were long gone.

  Since Erica hadn’t been planning this, her reaction would’ve been instinctive. She’d most likely gone someplace she felt comfortable. Someplace she felt safe. Someplace he wouldn’t know about.

  He stared at the picture, trying to remember
where it had been taken. Some restaurant for Annette’s birthday or something. He studied Marie’s smile. Dammit, woman. You couldn’t let it go, could you? He stared up at the ceiling and felt actual tears drain down his throat. Then he clenched his jaw and his fists. I’m not going to blubber over you. You don’t deserve it.

  Setting the photo back down, he picked up the only other one he’d seen in the apartment. Once again, it was Marie, Erica and Annette. They were sitting in a horse-drawn carriage. It was a crappy Polaroid, but Billy had seen this before. Marie had something similar she’d kept on her dresser. She’d always said that this vacation, when she’d been about eight, had been the best time of her life.

  That’s one of the things that had driven him crazy about Marie. All she’d wanted was fairy tales and romance. Who had time for that shit? He snorted into the quiet, stale air and almost threw the photo across the room. He felt like trashing the entire damned place, but he couldn’t. When questions started being asked—and they would be soon enough—every finger had to point to Erica.

  He walked to the closet, grabbed a couple suitcases, set them on the bed and threw in one thing after another. Makeup, lotions, brushes, clothes. Next, he’d have to make sure her car wouldn’t be found. When Erica never came home—and he was going to make sure she never did—it would look as if she’d planned all along to disappear without a trace.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE LATHE MACHINE whirred as Garrett turned the last hickory post for the nightstand he was making for one of the guest rooms in the cabin he’d bought on Mirabelle. A basic, rustic-looking frame, this simple table with one drawer certainly wasn’t one of the more challenging pieces of furniture he’d ever built, and he was looking forward to moving on.

  He’d hoped to start making something special, unique and classic for the furniture in his own bedroom, the last room in the entire house to be outfitted, but a specific design had eluded him all these months.

  No matter, though. He loved working with wood, soft, hard, cross-grained or burled. The exact medium didn’t matter. In his woodshop, he was always in control. He never lost his temper, he never got angry, he never lashed out. The Zenlike concentration it required to make something from nothing with his hands never failed to soothe his soul. Until this morning.