Angela turned slightly and, even though her hands were bound, managed to hit him with her shoulder and knock him off balance. The cop held back his fury as Angela climbed into the backseat of the car. The first thing she did was to sprawl full-length on the seat. The cop slid behind the wheel, watching Angela dig her muddy heels into the rich fabric of the upholstery.
Christ, he had sweated to buy this car, and now this punk kid had ruined it in three seconds. Someone was going to pay for this, and it wasn’t going to be him. And this wasn’t even department business. A $40,000 car with only 10,211 miles on it. Shot to hell! His shoulders slumped as he steered the quiet car from the parking lot on his way to Eric Summers’s house.
Chapter 10
Charlie glanced in the backseat to make sure the groceries hadn’t been stolen. He had shopped during his lunch hour and left the food in the car. By now everything must be frozen solid. He hoped Angela wasn’t going to be upset.
Angela.
Icy, treacherous roads permitting, he would see her in less than twenty minutes. Happy endings really did happen to people like him.
His eyes glued to the hazardous highway, Charlie fumbled with the radio, picking up warnings about storms and dangerous driving conditions.
“Tell me about it,” he snorted as he watched a car in the next lane swerve and then straighten itself out.
The traffic slowed to a near halt and Charlie shifted the car into low gear. Right now his top priority was Angela and their relationship. For the first time in his life, someone had bothered to look inside him, to see that he really did have a heart and a sensitive soul. And Angela was responsible for all of that. She’d made him feel the way he did at this moment. His mood lightened again and he felt almost giddy. If—and the if was a big one—he ever told Angela about how long he’d been lonely, she would most likely understand. Just thinking about her radiant smile made him feel whole again, no longer split in two.
Preoccupied, at first he thought he’d made the wrong turn. Or was it the wrong driveway? Had he missed his own house? With all the rain and sleet anything was possible. But no, that was his house; he could tell by the mimosa tree on the front lawn. Now the branches were bare, of course—still, his was the only house on the street with a mimosa tree. But the front light was off and there was no sign of life anywhere. Why was the house so dark? Of course, he reassured himself, Angela must have finished all that baking and maybe fallen asleep watching television. What other reason could there be? He would forgive her. She had problems. And if there was one thing Charlie knew about, it was problems.
His gut churned as he shifted the heavy grocery bag and worked the key in the lock. There was no scent of perked coffee, but there was a lingering aroma of cookies. He looked toward the living room, toward the long sofa. She wasn’t there. The television wasn’t casting shadows in the dark room. Something akin to a primal moan in his soul struggled to the surface. He dumped the groceries on the nearest chair and lumbered toward the kitchen.
Empty and dark. He flipped on the light and saw a couple of dozen Christmas cookies on a plate next to the refrigerator. They were in various shapes and decorated with different colored icing.
But where was Angela?
In his haste to get to the stairs, Charlie tripped and sprawled full-length across the potted rubber plant standing by the wing chair. Large tears flooded his eyes as he crawled up the steps. He already knew there wasn’t going to be a girl lying across the bed. She was gone! She had baked the cookies and left. Why, God, why?
He made it to the top of the stairs and struggled to his feet. It was an effort to remain standing. He wanted to bang his head against the papered wall and scream down the heavens. What had he done? The light switch inside the doorway cast the small bedroom in a cozy but dim light. The bedspread was neat and unwrinkled. He didn’t see her clothes or bag and he was too heartsick to look for them. A sob rose in his throat when he saw his hairbrush lying where she had left it. Angrily he tossed it onto the bed. He would never use that brush again. Never.
Great wracking sobs tore through his body as he stared at the brush on the white counterpane. He could have sworn that she cared, that she had seen what other people refused to see: that he was a caring guy, a regular guy.
She’d seemed so accepting—but then she’d needed a place to crash. He hadn’t asked what she was running from; he shouldn’t have been so stupid. He had believed her, wanted to believe she could care for him.
Blindsided. Alone again.
He wrung his hands in a frenzy as he made his way back down the steps. He went from room to room, turning on all the lights. He didn’t want the shadow of Charlie Roman stalking him, seeing his humiliation. She had betrayed him. He had given her sanctuary when no one else would. He had fed her, trusted her, let her see his vulnerability. Some people would call that love. He wasn’t perfect, but he had done right by her. Now he was bleeding inside. His heart was broken; his soul and spirit were crushed.
Furiously Charlie scattered the cookies on the kitchen counter onto the floor. Why had she put them there and then left? She had added insult to injury, letting him know the party was over. A bright light started at the back of his eye sockets, burning slowly at first then blazing into flame. His body trembled and shook and his thick lips pulled back from his small white teeth. An unholy bellow of rage erupted from him and shook the room. After that he was still; not a muscle twitched. It was over.
He was back to square one. It was a simple matter, really, when you thought about it. All he had to do was move on to square two and from there to square three, where it would all end.
Charlie settled himself into his chair in front of the television. He planted his feet firmly on the carpet and laced his fingers across his stomach. He waited. The dark night crept into dawn and still he waited. At six in the morning he maneuvered himself from the deep comfort of the well-worn chair. He stared a moment at the blank screen in front of him, then at the spilled cookies. Nothing moved him. The bright lights didn’t bother him at all. He put on his jacket and walked out the door. What did anything matter now? The only thought in his head was moving from square one to square two.
Charlie sneezed twice as he fumbled with the ice scraper to dislodge the thick crust from his windshield. By the time he had it cleared, his body was aching. It must be from sitting up in the chair all night, he told himself. He didn’t bother with the heater in the car. He would never feel warm again, so what was the point? He drove with mechanical ease to the mall and clocked in to begin his workday.
Amy Summers watched her husband pick at the food on his plate. She had taken extra pains to make his dinner attractive: roast beef, sliced extra thin the way he liked it, and bright orange carrots next to the emerald peas and the mashed potatoes. At the last minute she had placed a small sprig of parsley on the square of bright yellow butter nestling in the mound of mashed potatoes.
“What is it, Eric? Is the roast too well-done?” she asked, her soft brown eyes reflecting her concern.
“No, it’s perfect. I guess I’m just beat. Hell of a day. By the way, I made myself a stiff drink while you were putting the finishing touches on dinner. I think it took the edge off my appetite. I’m sorry, honey.” Eric had no sooner finished speaking than the doorbell chimed.
Suddenly he was off his chair and running to the front door. His gorge rose. He fully expected it to be someone coming to tell him that Timberwoods Mall had just blown. He realized that unconsciously he had been listening for a thunderous boom in the distance. But if anything had happened, he would have been notified by phone. Still, he couldn’t help it—the nightmare scenario lingered in his mind. It wasn’t over yet.
Amy stared at her dinner, then attacked it with gusto. After all, she was eating for two. Eric was back in a few minutes, his face blank. “Stay in the kitchen, Amy.”
“Stay in the kitchen? What are you talking about? Hey—” she said, getting up from the chair, her dinner forgotten, “haven’t
you heard of the Emancipation Proclamation? What’s in the living room you don’t want me to see?”
“Amy, this is mall business. Now, stay out here in the kitchen. I mean it,” he said firmly.
“I don’t like the way you’re talking to me, Eric. I’ve never interfered in your business before, but this time it’s different. There’s something strange going on, and I want to see for myself. This is my house, too, you know.”
“Amy, honey . . .”
“Don’t you ‘Amy honey’ me,” she said, going through the swinging door.
“What—who is she?” she snapped at her husband before she made eye contact with the frightened girl and the officer who had her by one thin, handcuffed wrist. Her tone softened. “You two better tell me right this minute what’s going on. And take off those cuffs,” she demanded. “Right now.”
Amy waddled over to Angela. “Be gentle with her. It’s okay, honey,” she soothed as eight long years of suppressed motherhood rose to the surface. “No one in this house is going to hurt you, and certainly not this big ox I’m married to. I’m Amy Summers. You’d better work faster than that, Mr. Policeman,” she said sharply. “What if you cut off her circulation?”
“She’s fine, Mrs. Summers. I had to do it this way,” the cop said defensively. “She almost escaped.”
The handcuffs removed, Angela massaged her wrists then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. What was she doing here, she wondered as she looked around warily. Why had the cop brought her here?
Don’t ask, she told herself. Keep cool and let them talk. The pregnant lady was glaring at them. Amy Summers seemed genuinely concerned.
“Are you all right, honey?” Amy asked anxiously.
Angela nodded.
“Would you like a soft drink?” Again Angela nodded as she licked her dry lips.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I’m starved.”
“Oh my God,” Amy said, wringing her hands together. “She’s starved. You come with me right now. I’ll fix you some dinner.” She fixed a bright, brown gaze on her husband and said sharply, “Just look at this poor child. How could you? Grown men! They didn’t hurt you, did they?” she asked worriedly.
“No.”
“Come on, Amy, we’ve only had her for half an hour,” Eric muttered.
“Half an hour! Then why is she starved and why is she so filthy?” she hissed. “You’re not telling me everything. Come on, honey, I’m going to feed you and then you’re going to take a nice herbal bath. I grow the herbs myself,” she chatted as she led the docile Angela into the kitchen. “You sit right there and I’ll make you a nice plateful of supper. Do you like roast beef?”
“I love roast beef.”
Within minutes Amy put a heaped plate before the girl. Angela wolfed it down and sat back in her chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Summers. I think that was the best dinner I ever ate.”
“Why, thank you, honey. Would you like some peach cobbler and a glass of milk?”
Angela nodded. Amy watched her devour the rich cobbler and felt sad. The girl looked so defenseless.
“Everything was delicious, Mrs. Summers. I really enjoyed it. Thanks again.”
“I don’t know why you’re here or what happened, but I want you to know that there isn’t a kinder man in this whole world than my husband. He won’t hurt you, I promise you. Now, you come with me. I’m going to fix a bath for you that you’ll remember for a long time.”
Angela followed Amy down the hall into the bathroom. “See these little net bags of herbs? Take one, tie it under the faucet, and let the water run through it. When the tub is full, untie it and let it float in the water. After you’ve soaked for a while you’ll feel like a new person. I grow the herbs on my windowsill in the kitchen. I have scented soap and Ivory. Which would you like?”
“Ivory will be fine, Mrs. Summers.”
“Here are the towels,” Amy said, opening the cabinet under the sink. “Bath powder and shampoo are in the medicine cabinet. I just might have something from the old days that would fit you. I didn’t always dress in tents.” She laughed.
She was back in a few minutes, her arms full of clothes. “You take your time now. Soak as long as you like.”
As soon as Amy Summers closed the door into the hall, Angela dashed into the bedroom to use the telephone. She had no idea how long Eric Summers planned on keeping her here, but she didn’t want Charlie worrying about her or thinking she’d run out on him. If there was one thing she’d learned about Charlie in the short time she’d known him, it was that he could jump to conclusions. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him when she got hold of him, but something would come to her. She hated the thought of lying to someone who’d given her shelter, no questions asked, but she had no choice. If she told him the truth about herself he might not like her anymore.
She felt a twinge of guilt at using the phone without asking, but she hadn’t brought her cell and it wasn’t as though anyone had asked her to come here. She’d been forced. Practically kidnapped.
She had memorized Charlie’s number, which was the same prefix as her own. She counted the rings—two, three, four, six. He wasn’t home, and without an answering machine she couldn’t leave a message. Maybe she could try again after her bath.
When Amy settled herself in the living room the young police officer was gone. She stared at her husband with wide eyes.
“I don’t want you to interfere, Amy. There will be other people here shortly, and I want you to stay in the kitchen or bedroom. Do you understand ?”
“I understand you,” Amy said quietly.
“But you have no intention of doing what I ask, is that it?”
Amy nodded.
“This is a tricky situation, Amy. She has information we desperately need.”
“The girl is scared half to death, Eric. Where are her parents? Why was she brought here in handcuffs?”
“Look, Amy, believe me, it’s better you don’t know. You’re going to have to trust me. You have my word that nothing is going to happen to her. All we want to do is talk to her. Talk, Amy, that’s all. Why don’t you let me make you a cup of tea? You look tired.”
“I don’t want any tea and I’m not tired. Why are you trying to sidetrack me? How long are you going to keep her here?”
“She can leave any time she wants after she talks to us.”
“All right, Eric, I’ll go into the kitchen, but I want to see that girl before she leaves here. Promise me,” Amy said firmly.
“I promise,” Eric said shortly.
“I’m going to clean up the kitchen and then I’m going to bake a cake.”
“Fine, fine. Why don’t you make two cakes,” Eric said absently.
“Great idea and I’ll frost them with arsenic. How would you like that?”
“Whatever you say. You know I like cake,” Eric replied, his mind on other things.
The doorbell chimed. Eric opened it to admit Noel, Lex, and Harold.
“You really found her?” Lex asked, amazed. “Where is she?”
“Taking a bath,” Eric said disgustedly. “An herb bath, no less. Amy decided to do a little advance mothering. Angela has to scrub off a lot of mud and wash her hair, and then God only knows what else. She’s been in there a long time; she should be out soon. How about a drink while we’re waiting?”
“That sounds good to me.” Harold beamed. Noel and Lex nodded in agreement and watched Eric head to a small array of liquor bottles standing atop a sideboard.
Angela waved the blow dryer a few times around her springy curls and looked in the mirror. She would do. Mrs. Summers certainly was nice. She was grateful for the food. Wondering vaguely when the baby was due, she thought about buying a present for the new arrival, or making a colorful mobile to hang over the crib. She could even design a wall hanging—brightly colored animals all in a row, maybe, or whatever Amy wanted.
That is, she could get creative if she weren’t locked up somewhere. She t
idied up the bathroom and put everything back the way she found it. Before leaving the bedroom, she tried Charlie’s number again. After ten rings she hung up. Where was he? He should have been home long ago. Or maybe he was home and just not answering the phone because he was angry at her. If only she’d left a note . . . but at the time she hadn’t been thinking about anything except getting out of there and ridding herself of the vision.
Angela went back to the kitchen and smiled at Amy, a sad but winsome smile that went straight to Amy’s heart.
“You were right, Mrs. Summers, that was the best bath I ever had. I cleaned out the tub and returned everything the way I found it.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t want you to have to scrub. I mean, with you being . . .”
“As big as a mountain. Thanks, honey.”
“When is your baby due?”
“Right around Christmas Day. Won’t that be a magnificent present?”
“The best.” Angela grinned. “I wish I could stay here and talk to you, but I have to go inside. Your kitchen smells so good. I love it in here.”
Tears blurred Amy’s eyes. “When you’ve finished your talk, you come back here and we’ll have some fresh chocolate cake and talk about my baby. Is it a deal?”
Angela nodded and walked through the swinging door into the living room. Eric was shocked at the girl’s appearance. Christ, she almost looked normal and she smelled like Amy, just like an herb garden. Lex raised his eyes and grinned at Harold. It was obvious the chief had a little trouble recognizing Angela for a moment. Soap and water certainly worked miracles.
“Angela, this is Dr. Noel Dayton,” Lex explained. “He wants to talk to you and so do we. I apologize for the way you were brought here, but you have to understand that we really had no other choice. You can leave, by the way. But I want to make it clear that we believe in you. All we want to do is talk. Is it a deal?”
Christmas At Timberwoods Page 14
