Promises to Keep

by Susan Crandall

  Lily said, “It’s lemon. Maybe Riley should put it in the kitchen?”

  “That would be good. And thanks so much; I love lemon cake.”

  “I know.” Lily smiled.

  Riley disappeared for a couple of seconds. When he came back in, he sat on the floor beside Mickey.

  Lily asked Mickey about her leg. While Mickey was answering, Lily noticed Riley looking at her with more than friendship shining in his eyes. There was the answer to his mood, she thought—and the reason the news that Clay was his father wasn’t overwhelming him.

  “Well, hello,” Karen said as she came down the stairs into the living room.

  Lily stood, unable to read the mood in either Karen’s voice or her expression. Might as well present an innocent and happy front. “Hi, Karen. We just brought by a cake to cheer Mickey up. The pottery plate it’s on is a gift, so don’t worry about returning it.”

  Karen’s gaze cut to Riley and back again. “How nice.”

  Both Riley and Mickey seemed to be holding their breath.

  When Karen didn’t seem inclined to further the conversation, Lily said, “I know you have your hands full here.” She forced a smile, thinking of how Mickey had to answer the door on her crutches. “Do you need anything—something from the grocery or drugstore?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Well,” Lily sighed lightly, “I guess we should be going then.” She turned to Mickey. “Would you like Riley to pick you up for school on Monday?” She turned a false but bright smile on Karen then. “I know how hard it’ll be driving her to and from school with your work schedule.”

  For a second, it looked like Karen was going to refuse, then she seemed to reconsider. “That would be a help. I have to be at the bank early on Monday for a tellers’ meeting.”

  “Great, then.” She looked at Mickey again. “You take care of yourself. If any of you need anything, just call.”

  Riley got to his feet. Lily noticed he touched Mickey’s hand briefly. When her worried gaze moved back to Karen, it appeared she hadn’t noticed.

  As they left the room, Riley said, “See ya, Mickey.” Then he stopped in front of Karen. “Good-bye, Ms. Kimball.”

  Karen’s tight-lipped expression softened slightly. “Bye.”

  Lily wanted to give the kid a big pat on the back, but she waited until they were outside. “Well done.”

  He looked at her with surprise. “What?”

  “You faced her and said a respectful good-bye—and you remembered she likes to be called Ms. Kimball and not Mrs. Fulton.”

  He quirked his mouth and shrugged. As he went down the porch steps, he said, “Thanks, Mom. I feel better after seeing her. It’s just sometimes . . . her mom can be so mean to her.”

  “I know. You’re a good friend.” Lily left it at that. She wasn’t sure that Riley even knew he was in love yet. Then she said, “Let’s see if Molly and Nicholas want to go to the park and to lunch.”

  Much to her surprise, he agreed. The strong glimpses of maturity she was seeing in her son continued to catch her off guard.

  He surprised her further when he asked, “Why do you suppose Aunt Molly didn’t marry Nicholas’s father?”

  Lily paused on the sidewalk, wanting to get this answer right. She had the feeling this was one of those few moments in a parent’s life that they have a chance to say something that will stick.

  “I don’t know, really. She doesn’t like to talk about him. Sometimes things don’t work out between two people. She has a career and can care for a baby on her own, so I guess she decided that was best.”

  “Mickey says babies aren’t a good reason to get married.”

  She had to bite her tongue to keep from asking how that happened to come up in conversation between them. “I suppose that’s right in a sense. Sometimes getting married because there’s a baby on the way only compounds one mistake with two.”

  “Would you have married dad if you hadn’t been pregnant?” He cast his gaze down the street when he asked.

  She drew a fortifying breath. “Probably not when I did, but I did love your dad, so we probably would have ended up together if. . . .”

  “If Clay didn’t come back?” Now he was looking at her.

  It seemed impossible that they were having this conversation standing on the street. “I’ve always been in love with Clay. I won’t lie to you. If he had been around, Peter and I would never have married.” She thought of that look she’d seen in her son’s eye as he looked at Mickey. “Keep in mind, there is a lot of responsibility that goes along with . . . making a baby. Even if you don’t marry the other parent, you’ll still be tied to them for the rest of your life.”

  He looked at her for a long minute. Then he smiled and said, “Don’t worry about me, I’m not planning on . . . you know.”

  “Riley, sometimes plans have absolutely nothing to do with it.”

  He looked at his shoes for a second, then said, “Mickey’s mom always made Mickey feel responsible for her having to marry Mr. Fulton.”

  Lily put an arm around her son. “You said it yourself, Mrs. Fulton says a lot of stupid things. Let that be a lesson—don’t look for other people to blame for your choices. It’s very hurtful.”

  He nodded, then started walking toward Molly’s porch steps. “Hey, here comes Aunt Molly.” He pointed down the street to where Molly pushed the stroller in their direction.

  Lily paused for a moment and said a little prayer that Riley and Mickey would have better sense—and if not that, better luck—than she or Molly did.

  Molly rolled the shopping cart across Kingston’s lot. It clattered loudly on the rough, pitted pavement. She figured Nicholas was getting his evening jostle early as he rode along in the cart’s infant seat. Leaning close, she asked him, “So, you like it? Maybe we should do this instead of sitting around the bathroom.”

  His little face broke into a grin and his eyes lit up.

  Molly’s heart broke. How was she going to live without him?

  It was still early evening, but it was as dark as the middle of the night. For some reason, the shortening days bothered her this year. The early onset of night seemed much more depressing than she ever remembered. It used to be the herald of the holiday season, a sign that it was time to start thinking about turkey and mistletoe and Christmas shopping. Now it just felt . . . dark.

  She put her groceries in the trunk and then put Nicholas in his car seat. Giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, she got out and closed the door. As she opened the driver’s door, she paused with her hand on the latch. She saw the cloud of her breath in the dim light of the parking lot. On the other side of the lot a father tried to corral three young children into seat belts. She watched for a moment, imagining Dean with Nicholas doing ordinary everyday things—like running to the store for ice cream after dinner. It would have been a heartwarming picture, if only she were in it, too.

  Listening intently, Molly strained to hear the violin that she had heard on her previous two nighttime trips here. The night was damp and quiet, much more quiet than the last time she’d heard the mysterious music. After a moment, she gave up in disappointment and got in the car and drove home.

  As she pulled in the driveway, she realized she’d forgotten to leave on the kitchen and porch lights. She parked the car near the kitchen door and leaned over the back of her seat to see if Nicholas was awake. As always with the shortest car ride, he was snoozing.

  She decided to take the groceries in first. She’d rather stumble in the dark with groceries than with Nicholas.

  There were only two brown bags in the trunk. She hefted one in each arm, with her keys ready in her right hand. Her load blocked any visual of the ground she might have managed in the dark. She stubbed her toe just as she reached the back walk that led to the alley. Unable to maintain her balance, she pitched forward with a gasp, bracing herself for the sharp pain as she hit the ground.

  Instead, a pair of arms grabbed her. The grocery bags tumbled
free of her grasp as fear made an icy stab at her heart. She heard her keys hit the concrete.

  She tried to scream, but only a long breathy whine came out. She thrashed against her assailant, whose hold tightened with every move she made.

  “Stop! Molly, it’s me!”

  She kicked his shin before the voice registered.

  “Dammit! Stop!”

  The arms released her and she stumbled backward two steps, then tripped over a jar of spaghetti sauce and landed on her rear end in a huff of breath.

  “What in the hell are you doing back here in the dark! You’re supposed to be in New York.”

  Dean limped over to her and offered her a hand up.

  When he pulled her to her feet, he yanked her against him and held her tightly against his chest. “Thank God you’re all right.” He let her go. Framing her face with his hands, he covered her forehead and then her lips with desperate, frantic kisses.

  “What’s the matter? What happened in New York?” Even as she said the words, cold, clammy fingers of dread settled on the back of her neck. Her worst fears were about to be realized. “His father?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Where have you been?”

  “We were out, doing stuff. Now tell me what’s happened.”

  “Where’s the baby?”

  “In the car.”

  His hands finally released her. “I’ll get him. You open the house.”

  By the time she had the door open and the lights on, Dean was there with the baby. He handed the pumpkin seat over to her and went back outside to retrieve the groceries. Molly forced herself to take care of the tasks at hand while he did that, changing Nicholas’s diaper and warming his bottle. It took Dean four trips to shuttle in the groceries because one of the bags had split. Then he made another trip and hauled in a nylon duffle bag.

  Finally, he was inside and had locked the door behind him.

  Sitting down at the kitchen table to feed Nicholas, she said, “Now tell me what’s going on.”

  Before Dean could open his mouth, the telephone rang.

  Frustrated by the interruption, Molly shifted the baby so she could answer it. “Hello?”

  The hollow quality of the silence told her the line remained open, although there was no human sound on the other end. “Is anyone there?”

  The line clicked, then went dead.

  She sighed in irritation, punched the off button, and tossed the phone on the table. Returning her gaze to Dean, she said, “You were saying?”

  He was frowning. “Who was that?”

  “Probably a wrong number. I’m not in the book.”

  “They didn’t say anything?”

  “No.” A lump of ice formed in her stomach. “Maybe it was kids messing around.”

  “Maybe. And maybe it was trouble.”

  “Him?” Could it have been Nicholas’s father?

  “Probably not. Too amateurish.”

  “Now you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “First I’m making a call.” He picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  As she opened her mouth to question him, he raised a finger to silence her.

  “I’m calling from Dr. Boudreau’s residence. 1544 Grant Street. The doctor thinks someone has been prowling around her house. We’d like to have extra patrols throughout the night.” He paused. “Yes . . . Dean Coletta . . . Thank you.” He disconnected and put the phone down.

  “You think that’s going to help?”

  “It can’t hurt.”

  “You really think he’s coming here.”

  “That call was most likely a wrong number. These guys don’t operate like that.”

  She hadn’t been truly frightened for weeks. The cold clutches of fear settled around her heart. She forced herself to say, “Explain to me what happened in New York.”

  “Before I left for New York, I hired an investigator—”

  “So all of that talk was just to placate me—you already had someone looking for Nicholas’s father?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “You know as well as I do, if this man is dangerous, he needs to be stopped now. That danger won’t go away just because you ignore it!” Then he gave her a cold hard look that sent a shiver over her. “And believe me, this man is dangerous.”

  “That’s why you were so panicked outside—you thought he’d beat you to us?” Holding the baby, she got up and took a step toward him. “This is exactly why I didn’t want you to do this!”

  Putting his hands on her shoulders, he said, “I understand how you feel. Jesus, I was so afraid I wouldn’t . . . this has made me see, keeping you and Nicholas safe is far more important to me than punishing Julie’s killer. And the only way to truly keep you safe is to eliminate him.”

  “You can’t kill him!”

  “I will if he tries to harm you.” He clasped her face in his hands again. “I swear I will. No one will hurt you or Nicholas. I’d die to protect you.”

  She could feel him trembling. Looking in his eyes, she saw something so startling that it took her breath away.

  He leaned across Nicholas and kissed her lips; she tasted the promise he’d just made and knew he’d meant every word of it.

  His lips caressed the corners of her mouth, her nose, her eyes. His hands ran into her hair and he pulled her forehead against his.

  They stood there for a long moment, his hands in her hair, heads together with the baby between them. Molly’s heart felt like it was going to force itself through her ribs. Fear mingled with something stronger, something much more powerful, and she was as afraid for her heart as she was for Nicholas’s life.

  She was in love with Dean. It was suddenly as blazingly clear as the rising sun. And it only screwed things up worse; if she told him now, he’d think it was a ploy to keep Nicholas with her.

  So she kept her love locked safely in her heart.

  Finally she whispered, “What are we going to do?”

  Lifting his head slightly, he looked in her eyes and she feared he could see her feelings lying naked there. She lowered her lashes, but worried it was too late.

  Instead of answering, he kissed her again.

  Had he been thinking similar thoughts?

  “What do you think we should do?” he whispered an echo.

  The bottle squeaked empty and Nicholas began to squirm between them.

  Dean looked down, placing one hand gently on the baby’s head.

  Molly needed to blow away the sensual fog that had suddenly surrounded them. She shifted slightly away and lifted Nicholas to her shoulder for a burp. She said, “I meant, what are we going to do about his father?”

  Dean blew out a breath, then said, “He won’t come here himself. He’ll send someone else. The only way to get him is the way I believe Julie was trying to get him—through the federal government.”

  She tried to absorb what he’d just said. “Federal government? I think I need you to back up. Who is this guy?”

  Dean explained what Harry had told him. After much deliberation, he decided to tell her about someone going through Julie’s stuff sometime overnight.

  He finished, “They had to be looking for something incriminating that they think she had. I brought all of the mail from my office, maybe she sent something to me.”

  By this time, Nicholas was asleep in Molly’s arms. She went to put him down. When she came back in the room, he was starting to go through the mail. He asked, “Did she give you anything—a note, a computer disk, a safe deposit key?”

  She shook her head.

  “What all did she leave with the baby? Stuffed animal? Diaper bag?”

  “The diaper bag. That was it.” Then light dawned in her eyes. “You can’t think she hid the evidence in something of the baby’s! She would never have put him at risk like that—not after everything she did to protect him.”

  He tore open another envelope. “You’re probably right.”

  “I’m definitely right.” She
started to put the groceries in the refrigerator. “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  With a shrug he said, “I don’t know . . . seven this morning, I guess.”

  “It looks like we have a long night ahead of us going through all of that mail. I’ll make us a sandwich. You can’t concentrate with low blood sugar.”

  As Dean dumped the contents of the bag onto the table, he hoped against hope that Julie had sent him something, if not incriminating evidence, at least a clue that would put an end to this. He looked at Molly working at the counter.

  And then what? The man who murdered his sister was only one of the demons Dean was going to have to wrestle.

  Chapter 23

  Dean and Molly worked together on the mail. In order not to miss something that might be a cryptic message from Julie, every piece had to be read thoroughly. With each envelope, Molly asked if he knew the person on the return, then opened it and combed through the contents. She asked several sharp-witted questions as she searched for clues. Even tired and dealing with something she was totally unfamiliar with, her intelligence shone through like a beacon in the dark.

  At twelve-thirty, Dean raised his fatigue-scratchy eyes and looked across the table at her. Dark circles showed under her eyes in the overhead lighting. Her brow was creased with concentration. She was looking down, inspecting another letter. Her dark hair kept falling over her shoulder, getting in her way. Absently, she set down the paper she was studying, keeping her eyes on it, and worked her hair into a single braid in the back. Her action was so automated, he didn’t think she realized she was doing it.

  He watched transfixed as her fingers twisted the hair, exposing her slender neck. Her shirt rode up and bared a narrow swatch of skin at her waist, making him want to touch her.

  But there was more than the need to touch. And that’s where the problem lay. It had become startlingly clear to him today. His fear had taken his feelings for Molly and put them under pressure and, like coal into a diamond, what emerged was something precious. And yet, conversely, it seemed much too fragile to handle.