by Brenda Novak
Clay wasn’t sure whether or not to follow her. He didn’t know where Irene and Dale spent time together, but he figured it had to be fairly close. Neither of them was ever gone for long. And Clay doubted the chief would risk meeting Irene at the guesthouse on his property in town. This small fishing hut, which Allie had described as her father’s favorite getaway, sounded like a much more viable option. It was always available to Dale, very private and somewhere Evelyn probably never went.
Clay stared at the cabin, which Allie had already entered. He’d never dreamed she’d take him to such a place. He hadn’t even known it existed. Now that he did know, however, he could easily imagine Allie’s father calling Irene and asking her to meet him here for a few hours on an available afternoon.
Not that imagining such a rendezvous created a picture Clay wanted to see….
“Aren’t you coming?” Allie called from the front step, her body silhouetted by the flicker of a kerosene lamp. She seemed uncertain about his delay, but she didn’t act as if she’d just stumbled on proof that her father was having an affair.
Releasing his breath, Clay got out of his truck and approached the cabin.
“This is definitely private,” he said.
“My dad comes out here almost every Sunday,” she told him. “He likes to fish.”
“With you?”
“When my brother and I were younger, he’d bring us along. These days he mostly comes alone.”
Or so he wanted everyone to believe, Clay thought. “What about today? He didn’t come up?”
“No, he had too much to do. I saw him at home before I left.”
More good news. “I can see why he likes it here.”
The qui-ko-wee of a lone whip-poor-will, which rose from the damp woods surrounding them, seemed louder than any Clay had ever heard. He liked that sound and the sense of seclusion provided by the dense vegetation. But he hesitated at the cabin door, still afraid he might find something of his mother’s inside.
“You seem…reluctant to be here with me,” Allie said, frowning up at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said and stepped across the threshold.
Only about twelve by fifteen feet, the shack looked like an old miner’s cabin. There was a double bed pushed up against the wall. A dining table sat in front of a rock fireplace that had a spit and an iron hook dangling from above. Three wooden logs, crudely fashioned into chairs, were arranged by the table. White drapes hung at the window. The other furnishings included a small bookcase near the bed, some detached cupboards, a shelf above the fireplace with cooking utensils hanging from it and a knotted rug that covered the wooden planks of the floor.
“There’s no bathroom?” he said.
“The outhouse is downstream a bit. This time of night you’ll need a flashlight or you’ll never find it.”
“How long has your father owned this place?”
“Most of my life.” She gestured around her. “Luxurious, isn’t it?”
Maybe it wasn’t luxurious, but it was appealing. After all the unwanted attention he’d endured in his life, Clay felt as if he’d just stepped into another world, as if he could hide out here and avoid the prying eyes that watched him wherever he went in Stillwater.
It was easy to see how Chief McCormick and Irene might feel the same sense of security. Clay was almost certain this had to be their meeting place. But, fortunately, he saw no sign of his mother’s having visited once, let alone more often.
“Maybe someday my father will make improvements,” Allie said.
Clay shook his head. “I hope not. I like it the way it is.”
“If you had to cook here very often, you wouldn’t be so eager to keep it primitive,” she said. “I personally think it could use running water and electricity. And I’m not fond of trudging down to the outhouse in the middle of a dark cold night.” She moved the picnic basket from the floor to the table. “But considering how remote this place feels, it’s really not that far from civilization.”
She tilted her face up, expecting a reaction to her remarks, but he’d already forgotten what she’d said. Clay was beginning to marvel at the fact that he hadn’t originally considered Allie very attractive. She was so quick-witted and optimistic, so full of life and energy. She made him feel again—eagerness, hope, a deep-seated arousal—just when he’d decided he was beyond reach. Stillwater had become such a stagnant place, one that, for him, still revolved around the events of nineteen years ago. And yet, now that Allie was back, everything seemed to be changing….
He welcomed the way she made him feel, knew he needed it. At the same time, he feared the hope—because he knew no one could really change anything in his life. Certainly not the past…
“What?” she said when he simply stared at her.
“It’s perfect,” he said.
She smiled as if she was a little surprised he liked it so much. But he hadn’t been talking about the cabin. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“What’s for dinner?” He eyed her basket. “Or do the pointed questions come first?”
“Don’t worry about the questions. I’m going to ply you with wine before we start. Maybe I’ll get more out of you that way,” she said with a wink.
He arched his eyebrows. “More what out of me?”
She ignored the double meaning. “More than you normally say, which isn’t much.” She pinched her bottom lip, an action Clay found distracting, to say the least. Her lips were so full, so kissable. He was imagining what they might taste like, when she drew him back to the conversation. “Why is that? Why do you keep such a tight rein on yourself?”
Clay was beginning to believe they were far too alone…. “I don’t. Haven’t you heard? I do exactly as I please.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true. You push everyone who reaches out to you away. And yet I sense a deep desire to connect.”
“That’s bullshit,” he retorted, but he couldn’t meet her eyes. The way she watched him made him feel as if she could decipher every need, every longing. “I don’t trust just any idiot who comes along, that’s all.”
She folded her hands on top of the picnic basket. “Are you willing to trust me, Clay?”
He couldn’t trust anyone. Especially her. But he didn’t say that. He steered the conversation in a different direction. “Tell me what you think happened.”
“To Barker?”
“Who else?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s still a mystery.”
“Come on,” he said. “After everything you’ve heard, you have to wonder—am I the guilty party?” He advanced on her to see if she’d back away. “I don’t even go to church regularly. That makes me a heathen right there.”
She stood her ground. “Not in my opinion.”
“You’re avoiding the bigger issue,” he said softly. “What if it’s not safe for you to be alone with me?”
He loomed over her, hoping she’d cower in fear or retreat—so he could dismiss her as easily as he did everyone else in Stillwater. He had to destroy the confidence she seemed to have in him. He was pretty sure it was the way she treated him, as if he was good and not evil, that affected him so deeply. But she didn’t blanch or move. She seemed perfectly relaxed as she glared up at him. “You don’t intimidate me,” she said calmly.
“Then maybe you don’t know what’s good for you,” he scoffed. “I bet no one’s even aware that you’re out here.”
“Who would you have me tell?”
“Not your father, that’s for sure.”
“Good. We’re in agreement there.”
“So no one knows.”
“Does it matter?”
“It could if I’m the monster everyone thinks I am.”
Her expression turned thoughtful. “You’re not a monster, Clay. But that doesn’t mean you’re perfect.”
“Do I have to be?”
She studied his face, but he glanced away before she could guess how badly he wanted her
to accept him as he was. “For what?” she asked.
To atone for the past. But it was a pointless question. He already knew he could never be good enough. And that was his problem, not Allie’s. He was the one who had to live with his role in what had happened. “To get fed tonight,” he said.
She jerked her head toward a small stack of firewood. “As soon as you build a fire, we’ll eat.”
The flames cast a golden haze of moving shadows over Clay, softening the harsher angles of his face. Allie wished she could see him more clearly, but once she’d warmed the gumbo over the fire and poured it into the sourdough bowls she’d brought, he filled two wineglasses with Merlot and turned off the kerosene lamp.
She’d considered turning the lamp back on, but, in the end, decided that she liked the darkness. It encircled them like a protective shroud, evoking the kind of intimacy that set them apart from the concerns of everyday life. She thought that might help Clay loosen up and talk to her. But she was a little concerned that it might loosen her up, too.
They ate mostly in silence. Then, because the chairs were so hard, they carried their wine over to the bed. Allie lay on her stomach, cradling her glass in her hands; Clay leaned against the wall and stretched his legs out in front of him.
“I could get used to coming here,” he said, gazing into the fire.
Allie had guessed he’d like the place, but she’d been surprised by how vocal he’d been about it. Clay wasn’t all that vocal about anything. “I’ll bring you again sometime.”
He raised his glass to her in a mock toast. “Providing I have more secrets to share, eh?”
She grinned. “You must have something I want.”
“I can play pool, remember?”
“And if I’m ever in the market for a 1950s Jag, I’ll know where to go.”
He shook his head. “Wow, such enthusiasm. You really build a guy’s ego, don’t you?”
She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “I suspect your ego can withstand one less female swooning at your feet.”
“Swooning?” He took another sip of wine. “I never dreamed someone so prim and proper could be such a smart-ass.”
“Prim and proper?” she echoed. “What makes you think I’ve ever been prim and proper?”
“Maybe it’s the badge.”
“Not everyone who wears a badge could be called prim and proper. Why would you describe me like that?”
“I guess it started with the long skirts you wore in high school. And the way you hugged your books to your chest and walked to class with such purpose.”
“You remember that?” she said with a laugh. She hadn’t thought Clay had ever really noticed her.
“Along with the speech you delivered as valedictorian. What was it—‘Building on the Foundation of the Past’?”
“You just nailed the topic,” she said, astonished.
“They printed it in the paper. It was a damn good speech. If you had a past worth building on.”
“My parents made sure I had what I needed,” she said. But she knew he hadn’t been nearly as lucky. Once his stepfather went missing, his mother had been forced to take whatever job she could, and it was a standing joke in town that she’d work for slave wages. She’d had to. No one in Stillwater had wanted to give the person they held responsible for the reverend’s disappearance any breaks.
Clay wore the same clothes to school for several days in a row and never ate lunch. He didn’t have the money. Like his mother, he worked at the farm and took whatever odd jobs he could find. Some days he showed up at school so ragged around the edges he could scarcely stay awake in class. But he always looked after his sisters, even his stepsister, Madeline. And he would’ve died before admitting that he was going without because he had to. He made it seem very cool and rebellious, as if he liked what he wore and wasn’t in need of anything at all.
Most of the kids actually bought in to the tough image he’d projected but, as an adult, Allie could see it for what it was—a young man’s sacrifice and pride.
“They care about you,” he said. “You should listen to them.”
“And stay away from you? Is that what you’re getting at?” she asked bluntly.
His eyes settled on the small amount of cleavage showing above her shirt. “For starters.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for trying to protect me, but I’ll tell you what I told them. I’m a big girl. I’ll think for myself.”
“A big girl?” he scoffed. “Hardly.”
“I’m big enough.”
“For what?”
“To do whatever I want to.”
His grin slanted to one side, as if he found what she’d said rather endearing, like a puppy barking at a much larger dog.
“Stop with the patronizing bullshit,” she said irritably.
“Hey, I think you’re tough.” He lifted his hands in a show of sincerity, but his grin had turned into a full-fledged smile. The kind you didn’t get very often from Clay Montgomery. As if he was enjoying himself. As if he liked her. “You carry a gun, don’t you?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Don’t make me shoot you.”
He laughed softly. “Are all lady cops out to prove something? Or just the ones who weigh less than a hundred pounds?”
“I weigh a hundred and five pounds,” she said. “Anyway, haven’t you ever heard that good things come in small packages?”
“I’m growing more convinced of that by the moment,” he said, staring at her mouth.
Allie’s heart was now beating in her throat. She wanted to fill the silence but wasn’t sure she could speak. She felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.
Finally, he broke the tense silence. “What happened to your marriage?”
She scowled. “I thought I was the one who got to ask the uncomfortable questions.”
“You know the saying—all’s fair in love and war.”
“Which is this?” she asked.
His gaze returned to her lips. “You tell me.”
She swallowed hard. It sure as hell wasn’t war…. “He struggled with mood swings, had very little patience and different priorities,” she said.
Clay seemed to have lost the thread of the conversation.
“My ex,” she clarified.
“What were his priorities?”
“Affluence. Freedom.”
“And yours?”
“Children.”
“The other day you told me he didn’t want children.”
“Right. He couldn’t stand to have anything slow us down and resented the financial obligations and responsibilities. But mostly he hated sharing me with anyone else.”
“Did he tell you no children before you were married?”
“No. He mentioned it before I got pregnant, though. We argued about it all the time and decided to compromise at one.”
“And then?”
“And then he’d hardly look at Whitney and got jealous whenever she interrupted us or required my attention.”
“Where did you meet this guy?” he asked.
Allie liked that response. It told her that Clay found Sam as unbelievable as she did. “At college. He’s a bright guy, ambitious, social—and intensely possessive and selfish. I eventually realized that I couldn’t tolerate having a husband who wouldn’t even babysit our child if I needed it. I began to feel more and more torn between the two of them. Then, one day I came home to find that Sam had picked up Whitney before I got off work because the babysitter had a family emergency. He’d tried to call me, but I was working an important case and couldn’t be reached. So he brought her home, locked her in her room and let her cry for hours.”
“That’s the point where I’d make him very sorry.”
She laughed. “I was the one who was sorry—sorry I’d ever married him. To my mind, there was no excuse for such neglect.”
“Sounds like he didn’t deserve either of you.”
“Yeah, well, he’s with someone else
now, and it’s for the best.”
“Are you happier on your own?”
“I’d never go back to him, if that’s what you’re asking.” She rubbed her free hand over the goose bumps on one arm. Now that it was later, the air was growing cold despite the fire.
Leaning over, Clay unfolded the quilt at the foot of the bed and pulled it over her.
“Thanks,” she said.
He grinned. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
“Okay, I won’t.” She drained her glass and set it on the bookcase. “Now can I ask you a few questions?”
“Am I going to need more wine to survive the interrogation?”
“Possibly.”
“Where are you going to start?”
She frowned apologetically. “With your father.”
He grimaced. “Great.”
“Should I get you another glass of wine?” she asked, sitting up.
“Actually, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to talk about him even if I was falling-down drunk. So you might as well go ahead.”
Switching positions on the bed, she sat beside him with her back against the wall, and covered them both with the blanket. “When did he come back here?”
“Where’s here?” he asked.
“Stillwater.”
He blinked at her. “He didn’t, as far as I know.”
“He’s never contacted you?”
“No.”
She hated having to press him about this particular subject. She knew that what his father had done still hurt, although Clay liked to pretend otherwise. “What about your mother?”
He stared into his wineglass. “He didn’t contact her, either.”
“Would she tell you if he did?”
“I think so. For a while, I was all she had.”
For a long while, Allie added silently. “You’ve always been close.”
“She told me most everything.”
Allie suspected Irene had shared far more about her very adult problems than was good for a teenage boy. But, as Clay had just said, he was all she’d had. And somehow, at sixteen, he’d taken on the responsibilities of a man. He’d run the farm and picked up various part-time jobs. The way he’d supported her and his sisters was admirable, but no one in town ever talked about that.
