Dead Again: A Romantic Thriller

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “Sure, if your mom agrees,” Jack replied easily, a grin forming.

  “Yes!” Morgan said, pumping the air with his fist. With a yell, he was off down the path, toward the house, jumping and skipping with the boundless energy that always made Sophie feel exhausted.

  Jack looked at Georgia, who was staring at him, one arm around Sophie. “Hi,” he said gently.

  Georgia just looked at him solemnly, as she did with most strangers. Although she was deeply affectionate with Sophie, Jinni and Morgan, she was always reserved to the point of shyness with others. Then Georgia smiled, her face lighting up. “Hi.”

  “Come on!” Morgan shouted at the door, holding it open.

  “Come on,” Georgia said, grabbing Jack’s hand and tugging him toward the house.

  Sophie realized then it was too late to renege on the deal. She looked at Jack. “You’d better come in and meet the rest of the family.”

  “There’s more?” He seemed startled.

  “Just Jinni, who isn’t really family but she might as well be.”

  * * * * *

  Jack followed Sophie down the path toward the front porch, deep reluctance dogging each step. He knew exactly what the problem was. This was a family. People who cared about each other, people who protected each other, kept each other warm, safe and nurtured. It was all the good things he had carefully avoided for the last eight years.

  He avoided it for the simple reason that contact with families, becoming involved and laying down roots, only to have to pull them up again, along with all the accompanying anguish when he was forced to move on, drove him mad. Even the smallest contact reminded him of what he could not have, what would never be his.

  But it was too late, now. Sophie was already on the porch. She briefly rested her hand on Morgan’s head and he grinned at her before bringing his gaze back to rest on Jack, anticipation shining in his eyes.

  Sophie stopped at the open door and looked at Jack herself, the green eyes softening as she smiled. “Come on in,” she told him, waiting for him to step past her into the hallway opening up from the door. Warmth fanned his face and along with it, good smells of food cooking. He smelt meat of some kind and…god, yes! Fresh bread.

  Jack hesitated. Could he afford to do this? Dare he risk it?

  He looked at Sophie. She was watching him, her eyes narrowed a little. Did she see what was gnawing at him? His fear?

  His gaze fell to her lips and a brief echo of the tension that had grabbed at the pit of his gut out on the sidewalk flared. For one insane, shining moment out there he’d known he was going to kiss her. The knowledge was as inevitable as the sunset and his whole body had ached for that first taste of her lips.

  Forbidden fruit, he thought, looking down at her lips now.

  “Come on!” Morgan insisted from just inside the door.

  Then it struck him. If things had played out a little differently after the crash, this could easily be his family that he was coming home to.

  The idea jolted him like the touch of a live wire. His heart seemed to stop and his mind hung suspended over the void. Then life returned with a thud. He was trembling. He knew he could not afford to take that step inside the door.

  Morgan tugged at his sleeve again.

  He took the step. Then another and another.

  He found himself on the edge of two polished wooden steps that led down into a cozy lounge room. There were candles on the mantelshelf and a crackling fire in the fireplace. Georgia was already curled up on a loveseat, reading something that looked far too advanced for a child her age, another book tucked beneath it. Automatically, he catalogued her. A reader.

  His heart thumped frenetically. Knowing panic was close to the surface now, he shifted his gaze away from the picturesque bay window with its heavy velvet drapes. He found he was staring instead at the long wall of the room opposite where he stood.

  The whole wall was covered in bookshelves and each shelf was stuffed with books.

  Books. His soul sighed.

  The front door thumped shut behind him. He followed Sophie down into the room itself, heading for the fire, knowing all along that he was making a terrible mistake staying here.

  Probably the worst mistake of his life.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sophie found her hands were digging deep into her pockets, curling into fists there. She turned around so her back was to the fire and forced one hand from her pocket and waved around. “Make yourself comfortable,” she told Jack.

  He was standing in the middle of the room, his backpack slung over one shoulder. She had never seen a person who looked so out of place in a room as he did. The backpack, the well-worn clothes, didn’t help but mostly it was him. Jack looked like he was ready to bolt at any second.

  Again, she reconsidered her offer, only this time, she knew she must speak it aloud, or her conscience would not leave her alone. She cleared her throat.

  “You know, if you’ve changed your mind, if you don’t want to do this, or if you want to change the terms of the agreement—I’m willing to listen.” She grimaced a little. She was making it sound like he was the one having second thoughts.

  Perhaps he was. Uneasiness was pouring off him in almost visible waves.

  But his glance had shifted just a little, so that she knew the focus was not entirely on her. Behind her? At the books?

  He shook his head. Slowly. “I’m here, now,” he said. His gaze refocused on her once more. “You were going to introduce me to Jinni.”

  “Sure. Yeah.” She waved toward the narrow arch that led to the kitchen. “Jinni’s probably in the kitchen.”

  He was just staring at her. Had he even heard her? Sophie swallowed dryly. She felt as awkward as a schoolgirl and knew that she was close to blushing. “Martin?” she said, hoping to prompt him. The name came stiffly, awkwardly, to her lips.

  He blinked and seemed to mentally shake himself. He nodded toward the door she had pointed to. “Through there?” he asked.

  “Yes, through there.” She yanked her sweaty hands from her pockets and walked stiffly to the doorway. Morgan bounced up from his perch on the arm of the lounge chair, ready to follow them, but Sophie held up her hand. “Have you finished your homework?”

  His face fell, which was answer enough. “Well, kinda…”

  She shook her head. He sighed theatrically and threw himself into the lounge chair with a sulky expression.

  Perhaps it was that touch of normality which helped steady her. Perhaps it was because Jack took off his jacket and laid it on top of the huge backpack, which he propped up against the arm of the love seat. Now he didn’t seem like someone who was just about to leave. He ruffled his hair and looked at her expectantly.

  Sophie pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen.

  As always, chaos seemed to reign here. Sophie knew it was an illusion, that the appearance of disarray had an inherent orderliness. The kitchen was mostly Jinni’s territory. She kept Sophie and her family well fed and healthy, which proved the clutter did its job.

  The range was burning steadily, giving off a solid heat that baked Sophie’s calves before she moved farther into the room to give Jack space to enter.

  Jinni was standing at the central worktable, carving a baked chicken. She looked up briefly, with a smile and was about to return her gaze to her task when she saw Jack.

  She nodded, as if Jack’s presence had been entirely expected. “Hi.”

  “Hello,” he said back.

  “You like chicken?”

  “Love it.”

  “Good. Dinner’s in five minutes. You’d better get washed up.”

  Sophie waved her hand toward Jack. “This is Martin. He’ll be staying a while, to do the wiring.” But Jinni apparently already knew that, she realized.

  Jinni smiled at Jack. “Useful as well, hmm?”

  “I aim to be,” he said.

  She put down the knife and walked around the table to the high cupboards next to the window
over the sink, her braced foot clicking and dragging, her hips swinging wildly to compensate for the useless foot. “Then, can you bring down that big mixing bowl for me?” she said, pointing to the ceramic bowl they used for salads and which lived on top of the cupboards.

  Sophie saw Jack’s gaze flick down to Jinni’s oddly angled foot and the calliper, then up to the cupboard. He walked around the table and reached for the bowl, barely lifting himself off his heels.

  “Would you like it on the table?” he asked Jinni.

  “Thank you, yes.” Jinni was a little pixie next to him. She barely came up to Sophie’s shoulder, so Jack towered over her. But she didn’t seem cowed by him.

  Jack placed the bowl on the table for her and stepped back. He glanced at her brace again.

  “You know, if you rub graphite on the hinges, your brace won’t click so much.” He added, almost awkwardly, “And graphite won’t ruin your clothes, like oil would.”

  Jinni considered his suggestion with pursed lips. “Yes, I’ve heard that before. But I don’t have graphite and don’t know where to get it.”

  “I’ll get you some.”

  “Thank you,” she said solemnly. Then, “You’d better hurry up and wash if you want to eat.”

  “I will.” He looked at Sophie. “Where…”

  “This way.” She took him upstairs, to the small bedroom at the back of the house. There was a narrow single bed there, the mattress frankly bare beneath the old yellow chenille cover. A low stack of assorted cardboard boxes lined the wall under the high window, filled with kids’ clothes and toys, possessions that had passed their use-by date. Looking at them now, Sophie realized she had been telling herself for five years that she would get around to sorting them out. Had she ever really intended to do it? Or was the promise to take care of them enough to get her off the hook?

  There was no other furniture in the room—not a picture or cupboard. The polished floorboards had no rug over them and there was a water stain on the wall under the corner of the window, a legacy of a storm that had swept down out of the north last fall and threatened to take off the roof of the house.

  She grimaced. “As you can see, I hadn’t exactly planned on bringing a guest into the house this week. I’ll have to make up the bed for you and dig up a lamp, or something. There’s a spare one in Morgan’s room…”

  Jack stepped past her, looking around. “Just give me the bedding. I’ll take care of it.”

  “All right,” she agreed reluctantly, fighting off a memory of her mother’s voice, nagging that one didn’t allow a guest to make their own bed. If Jack insisted on being Martin Stride, then he was simply an employee who happened to board here.

  “The bathroom is across the hall—you’ll have to share it with Georgia and Morgan but if you’re working the early shift at the mill, then there shouldn’t be too many traffic jams. I’ll get you some towels too.” She pushed at the mattress, hoping it wasn’t as uncomfortable as its thinness hinted. “Somewhere around here we must have an old bureau we could bring up too. I hadn’t realized how little there was in here. But the room is nice and warm, that’s something you won’t have to worry about—you’re right over the range here and Jinni keeps it roaring through most of winter.” She realized that she was babbling. Nervous.

  Jack held up his hand. “It’s fine. Really. For me, it’s luxury. Warmth. A bed and hot running water. Anything else is pure cream.”

  What’s to be nervous about, Sophie? she asked herself.

  And the answer came straight back. He’s here. In my house. I don’t care if I have to call him Jack or Martin. It’s him. Here. What happens tomorrow? Or the next day?

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “Even the view isn’t a good one.”

  He looked out the window at the row of mountain summits visible beyond the tops of the scraggly firs at the bottom of the backyard. “I think it’s a great view,” he said, staring at them with a small little smile that made her think he was reminiscing about something.

  “I’ll leave you to sort yourself out,” she told him and escaped before her tongue got loose again and she said something really stupid.

  Maybe it’s a good thing I have to call him Martin, after all, she thought, as she hurried back downstairs to get Georgia and Morgan ready for supper.

  * * * * *

  It took three days for the gossips to spread word that Martin Stride was living in her house. Sophie knew it took that long because it was three days before Peter showed up at the café. He arrived just on closing time, the crease between his brows and his distracted air promising trouble for someone.

  That someone turned out to be Jack, who was dutifully tackling the power box, replacing the old residential circuit breakers with big new commercial ones. The power box was in the main part of the café. A previous owner had built the shell of a cupboard around it, painting the disguising woodwork the same color as the wall. Sophie normally pinned notices to the front of the cupboard and kept plants with trailing greenery on top of it.

  Jack had the cupboard opened up, with drop cloths beneath him and the nearest tables pushed out of danger range. Because the mains would have to be switched off for most of the work, he had only just got started—he would be working into the night to get it done with minimum interruption to Sophie’s work in the café.

  Jack’s whole routine worked around Sophie’s life with little interruption. He’d settled into it with no discussion or negotiation and it had evolved almost overnight. By the time she got up in the morning, he was already heading out the door for his early shift start at the mill. Yesterday, she had come downstairs to find that Jinni was also up and dirty breakfast dishes were piled in the sink. She had made him breakfast.

  Sophie had made the mistake of assuming that Jack would take it easy in the afternoon before starting the re-wiring but she arrived home the first night to find he was already at work in the cramped corners of the basement, tracing the wiring in the house, Morgan’s little flashlight in his mouth and a pen and paper in his hands.

  Jack was covered in the thick globules of dust that had throughout decades of neglect coagulated in the odd corners and pockets formed by the framing and supports down there. Morgan was down in the basement with him and not a speck of dust clung to him. Sophie marvelled over this minor miracle, until she noticed a long rectangle drawn in the dirt on the floor. Morgan stood with his boots right on the edge of the rectangle, quivering with excitement as he watched Jack work. The waffle pattern of his boots didn’t appear anywhere on the other side of the rectangle.

  Jack turned as she climbed down the steep steps, holding onto the raw wood handrail with a tight grip. “Hi,” he offered.

  “You’ve already started?”

  “Gotta earn my keep.”

  She glanced at Morgan again. “You’re also providing entertainment.”

  “Mom, he said I could help!”

  “I’m keeping him out of harm’s way,” Jack assured her.

  “I can see that. What I want to know is what you used to make him stay behind the line. If it’s something you can bottle, I want a crate of it.”

  He smiled as he glanced at Morgan. “Morgan’s a great kid. He’s very good at following instructions, which is absolutely a must if you’re going to be an electrician when you grow up.”

  “Ahh…” She nodded wisely. “I came to tell you dinner’s in ten minutes.”

  “We’ll be there,” Jack said and Morgan nodded agreement.

  After dinner, Jack had asked her for the keys to the café. He’d worked for a few hours that evening and returned with a list of supplies and tools he’d need in addition to the ill-equipped toolbox he’d found in the garage.

  He’d shared a pot of coffee with her, the conversation polite and distant, then gone to bed, leaving her alone in the lounge room.

  The same thing had happened yesterday and almost the same thing today, except that Jack had come to the café before she had closed up, wanting to start on the p
ower box and get it done in one evening rather than leave her stranded without power the next day.

  Whenever he was not working, he seemed to spend his time sleeping, or reading his way through her paperback collection. Any conversation she’d had with him so far had been trivial and polite.

  Her nervousness the evening he’d moved in had been completely misplaced. Jack had been an absolutely model houseguest and easily the hardest working man she’d met.

  When Peter strode into the café, Jack had glanced up once then gone back to his circuitry.

  Peter, however, stopped short, his hands on his thick black leather belt, glaring. When it was obvious that Jack wasn’t going to respond to the glare, Peter came over to the counter where Sophie was cleaning the coffee machine, her last job every night. Only Cal was left at the counter and a couple of teenage girls were in one of the booths, finishing up their milkshakes.

  Peter leaned on the stainless steel counter, spreading his hands out. With his height and build, the stance made him seem like he was towering over her. “So it’s true, you really did hire the bum.”

  Irritation darted through her but she hid it and played dumb. “Bum? You mean Cal?”

  Cal, who had the thinning strands of silver and the gap-toothed smile of an old man, had all his faculties intact and his hearing was often phenomenal. He was up to par tonight, too. He wheezed a long chuckle into the dregs of his cup. “Yup, I’m a bum,” he agreed to no one in particular.

  “You know I’m talking about him,” and Peter jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “Martin?” She dropped the washcloth back in the basin of soapy water and rinsed her hands of coffee grounds. “He’s not a bum.”

  “He’s a drifter.”

  “He’s holding down two jobs. That’s a lot better than some around these parts.”

  Peter couldn’t argue with that, for they both knew there were people in the community who got by on welfare and handouts, content to feed off the system for as long as it let them. Vince Baltonia was one of the more chronic examples and like him, most of his kind hung out at Beany’s, playing pool for beers, where Peter and his men spent a lot of time cleaning them out and dumping them in the drunk tank on Saturday nights.