The Hero's Redemption

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Upstairs, Cole came to a stop in the middle of her bedroom and couldn’t take another step. A bellow roared from his chest and caught in his throat. He wanted to punch a wall. Do something violent to vent this anguish. But he couldn’t damage her house or anything she owned. And he had to make sure she couldn’t hear him. He stood where he was, shaking.

  Had to be five minutes before he was able to jerk open a drawer she’d emptied for him and grab some clothes. He turned on the shower as hot as he could bear it and let it pound his neck and the back of his head. God. Right this minute, today’s triumph didn’t mean anything but a source of grief.

  He could ask. She might allow him to stay. It was a good apartment; she was an ideal landlady. They could go on the way they’d been before they became lovers. Or even the way they’d been since.

  The terrible pain beneath his breastbone told him neither would work. He had to leave, for his sake and hers. Or maybe he was thinking only of himself. He’d get through dinner somehow, carry the clothes and books he had here up to the apartment and then walk to the library. There had to be some local place he could afford to rent. Cole couldn’t imagine continuing to see Erin even for a few more days. Sitting down to dinner with her every night would be torture. No, the sooner he could make the split final, the better.

  He’d known all along that he had to make something of himself. If he stayed, he’d feel diminished. He’d been broken and she’d put him back together again, for which he would always remain grateful. But if he stayed, they’d both see those cracks in him forever, regardless of how well the glue held.

  He’d be saving himself from inevitable grief, too, the gradual understanding that she’d started getting twitchy because he wasn’t the kind of man she could see having a lasting relationship with. As she continued healing, became the self-assured woman she’d once been, it would happen. The hurt he felt now was nothing compared to what he knew would come—hearing her faltering explanation of why their relationship wasn’t working for her.

  No. Better to get it over with now. He hated that he was hurting her, too, but had no doubt that he’d made the right decision for both of them.

  He just had to survive the days and weeks until the agony dulled.

  * * *

  OVER DINNER, ERIN coaxed him to tell her more about the job. What he’d actually been hired to do, and the personalities involved. She guessed Cole was willing to talk only because silence was worse.

  He’d been accepted readily by the crew he’d be working with, which made him sure the boss hadn’t told anybody that the new guy was an ex-con. Phillips, the contractor, seemed like a decent guy. He had high expectations and a temper, but worked side by side with his men. He offered praise along with criticism.

  When Cole finished eating, he pushed his plate away, cleared his throat and met her eyes directly. “I’ve thought about the accident you were in and your problem getting past it. There are a couple of things I’ve been wanting to say.”

  Did they have to do this? But seeing his determination, she only nodded.

  “I did some research online about the kind of van you were driving that day. Yours seated at least twelve people, right?”

  This wasn’t at all what she’d expected him to say.

  “Yes,” Erin agreed. “Actually, I think fourteen or fifteen. We could have gotten two or three more girls in on that trip.” Thank God she hadn’t.

  “What I read is that those extended vans are unstable. People writing reviews expressed the strong opinion that they aren’t safe and advise against buying one. From what you’ve said, I’m not so sure you had any chance to maneuver. It might not have mattered what you were driving. But you need to know the van wouldn’t have responded the way a typical car or even SUV would. It’s on the college that they bought an unsafe vehicle and didn’t warn you of the issues.”

  Her mouth seemed to be hanging open. She managed to close it. “But—”

  “Go online, Erin. Don’t take my word for it. See what’s being said.”

  She managed a nod. Was any of that true? There’d been so little time to react that day. Because I let my attention wander. But...she’d tried to swerve.

  “There’s something else.” Cole seemed more hesitant now, his voice more ragged. “You haven’t gone out at night speeding for weeks.”

  She hadn’t needed to. The nightmares had receded, too...until last night.

  “I want you to promise not to do it again. You survived, Erin. I know you’re happy at least some of the time. If you feel the pull, fight back.” His throat worked. “Please.”

  The hoarse plea shook her. Confusion swirled as competing needs battled. Agree, the hurt in her suggested. He’s leaving. He’ll never know.

  Maybe not, but she would know. She thought Cole had been honest with her, as she’d tried to be with him. Lying now would feel wrong.

  And...what he’d said resonated enough that she suspected he was right. She had stretches of hours now when she didn’t think about the girls, when she did feel happiness in the moment, satisfaction at accomplishments, pleasure in other people’s company. She wasn’t healed...but she might be getting there.

  Cole watched her, the hand that lay on the table seeming relaxed. Erin somehow felt sure he wasn’t relaxed at all.

  “I promise,” she said, her own voice small and raw. “I won’t deliberately endanger myself.” Death would have to work to find her.

  He expelled a harsh breath and his shoulders slumped. “Thank you. I want only good for you.”

  “Sure.” She sounded almost careless. “Listen, I’ll clean up. You must have things you need to do.”

  Appearing relieved, he took his cue and said good-night. After hearing the door shut behind him, Erin closed her eyes, the pressure in her chest swelling, and wondered what she’d do if it became unendurable.

  * * *

  IT WASN’T EXACTLY a shock to hear her doorbell the next morning. Erin knew who was here and what he’d say. The temptation was huge to pretend she hadn’t heard it. He could leave her a note. A phone message. But that would be more cowardly than she could accept from herself.

  When she opened the door, Cole waited on the porch, bracing his feet apart the way he did when he felt on edge. Erin had no doubt he saw the bruising beneath her eyes that told him how her night had gone. He didn’t look good, either. Except, of course, he did. His gray T-shirt stretched over powerful muscles. Work boots and cargo pants only emphasized his size and strength.

  “Cole.” Why hadn’t she done something to her hair besides pull it into a tight ponytail that didn’t flatter her face? Actually getting dressed would’ve been an improvement on the flannel pajama bottoms and oversize, many-times-washed T-shirt, too. But really, what difference did it make? She had no secrets from him.

  “I found a place to live that’s close to where I’ll be working,” he said. “I wanted to let you know I’ve vacated the apartment. Here are the keys.” He held out his hand.

  They dropped one at a time onto her palm. As she curled her fingers around them, they felt heavier than two keys should. Colder. “If you need any of the furniture...”

  He shook his head. “I’ll manage. I can pick stuff up at a thrift store now that I can haul it.”

  How could she not have been prepared for this moment? It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen it coming almost from the first. Holding herself together until he was gone...well, she had to do it.

  “I’m...really glad for you, Cole. I want you to know that. I’d never want to trap you. That wasn’t my intention. Seeing you succeed...it’s a gift.” Her smile probably wobbled, but she hoped he knew it was genuine. “You’ve come a long way.”

  “Mostly thanks to you,” he said huskily.

  “No, it’s because you’re the man you are.” She so didn’t want to humiliate herself. �
�Good luck, Cole.”

  He stepped forward, kissed her cheek and swung away. He was halfway down the steps he’d built before she could get the door shut.

  Erin couldn’t watch him leave.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  LOOKING OVER THE skeleton of the house that was his current job site, Cole unlocked his truck and tossed his hard hat onto the passenger seat. It felt good to take the thing off and let his scalp feel some air. A breeze—now, that would be even better. Too bad this was July and today’s temp had soared into the nineties. Given the typical Pacific Northwest humidity, he’d sweated buckets. If he wanted a breeze, he’d have to find a fan.

  Rico Sanchez walked past toward another guy’s truck. “See you at Mickey’s?” he asked.

  “Probably.” Cole lifted a hand to a couple of other men, then got in. He grimaced. The cab felt like a preheated oven. His attempt to let the heat escape—by rolling down the windows—hadn’t done any noticeable good. Since the air-conditioning was defunct, that was the best he could do.

  A popular local tavern, Mickey’s was air-conditioned, which right now was its main appeal.

  Cole had made himself socialize. He even managed to enjoy himself for short stretches of time. Being the odd man out with a crew like this could be uncomfortable. Phillips hadn’t been around much this week; he had crews working on four houses at once. But when he did show up, he seemed to watch Cole more closely than any of the other men, probably assessing his ability to work with them, as well as his skills. The month he’d been on the job wouldn’t be enough for the boss to let go of a degree of wariness. Cole couldn’t blame him; the recidivism rate for ex-cons was high. Still, feeling that extra scrutiny, knowing he had to prove himself, kept him on the razor’s edge.

  He felt pretty upbeat in general, but he wasn’t in the mood to join a crowd tonight. He’d want to flatten his back against a wall and stay where he could see everyone. Too many people around sent prickles down his spine.

  At the back of his mind, always, was a question. What would happen when these guys found out about his history, as they inevitably would? Even if they didn’t join the jury in condemning him, they’d look at him differently. Fear him, on some level. They wouldn’t want their girlfriends or wives around him. Would Phillips get rid of him if the rest of the crew became uncomfortable working with him?

  No matter what, he stayed conscious of the gulf between him and everyone else. They didn’t know him, and he didn’t want them to.

  He was surprised his stay at Walla Walla hadn’t already been exposed. Had whoever filed his application not even glanced at it? If she had—and he’d seen the bleached-blonde who ran the office in the trailer currently parked here in this development—could she really have resisted the impulse to gossip with the next employee who wandered in? Maybe, because he’d filled out an e-application, Phillips hadn’t ever printed it. Cindy, the blonde, might not have access to his computer files. Still, if Cole wasn’t outed any other way, he would be the first time a cop came by to accuse him of the latest crime.

  While he was living at Erin’s, he hadn’t fully appreciated what it meant to have a boss and landlady who did know him. Not through-and-through, but close enough. This past month, he’d become quieter, reverting to instinct, which meant double-checking every word before he said it.

  Finally preparing to pull away from the curb, he glanced in his rearview mirror. Speak of the devil, a big black pickup was about to pass, the driver none other than Tom Phillips. Seeing Cole, Phillips tapped his horn. Cole waved and started down the street behind him.

  He hadn’t reached the main road when his phone rang. Dani, he saw. Smiling, he steered to the curb and answered with “Hey.”

  “How’s it going?” Before he could answer, she raised her voice, but somehow muffled it, too. “No, you cannot go to Damien’s to hang out. It’s almost dinnertime. No argument.”

  Cole laughed. “Tough love.”

  “Sure, I’m going to let my kid go knock on his buddy’s door just as Damien’s mom is putting dinner on the table. She’s thinking, Oh, God, do I have to invite the kid to stay? Doesn’t his own mother ever feed him?”

  Still laughing, he said, “Does Damien ever knock on your door at five thirty, looking hopeful?”

  “Of course he does. I swear, both of them could eat dinner here, then go down the street and have a second one at Damien’s house with barely a burp in between. And go rummaging for a snack two hours later.”

  “I remember being starved all the time when I was that age.” He had been in the joint, too, until he’d resigned himself to eating whatever he was given.

  “I suppose if I come down to see you now, it’ll have to be on a weekend.”

  “Afraid so. When I’m working, I only take half an hour for lunch.”

  “Maybe we could invite Erin this time.”

  “You know I don’t live at her place anymore.”

  “But you see her, don’t you?”

  His sister had no idea her casual question was equivalent to smacking him with a bat.

  He’d assumed he would catch sight of Erin around town occasionally, say, at the grocery store. Every now and again, he’d drive by the hardware and lumber stores, even the plant nursery, not because he was looking for her, but keeping an eye out for her Cherokee nonetheless.

  He hadn’t realized that in a town this size it was possible to go for long stretches without running into someone you knew.

  “No,” he said.

  “What? Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t have been good for either of us, and that’s all I’m going to say.”

  His sister responded, but he tuned her out.

  He’d been thinking about going by Erin’s house, just to see if it looked like she was still living there. Or, damn, whether she’d rented out his apartment yet. So far, he’d talked himself out of it.

  “...an idiot.”

  Cole could fill in the part he’d missed. “So, when are you planning to drive down here?”

  She huffed out an annoyed breath at being ignored, but said, “Maybe a week from Saturday?”

  “Sounds good.” Wasn’t like he had any plans. He found the weekend hours tough to fill.

  “The job still going well?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “So it looks like it’ll be permanent?”

  She just had to tap into one of his worries.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “New construction will slow down in a couple months, once rainy weather hits. The contractor I work for is big-time enough to keep some projects going year-round, but I’ll bet he throttles back. And that means letting some people go.” Cole didn’t want to be one of those. Being laid off might be inevitable, since he was a new employee, but his level of determination had to count for something. He didn’t make expensive mistakes. He was never late; he didn’t slack off when Phillips wasn’t there. He didn’t have a beer at lunch, he didn’t bad-mouth the boss. “You know how it is. I’m the new guy,” he finished.

  “Jerry has relented,” she said abruptly. “Worse comes to worst, you can move here.”

  That would be a cold day in hell. He’d bet good money that Jerry hadn’t so much relented as been bullied into shouting, “Fine!” just to shut his wife up.

  “Tell him thanks,” Cole said.

  The short silence gave him warning.

  “Cole, would it kill you to call Dad?”

  He bumped his forehead against the steering wheel. “Because he’s finally convinced I got screwed? And, wow, I’m worthy to be his son, after all? Got to tell you, after ten years of silence, I’m not overflowing with forgiveness.”

  “Maybe you should think about someone besides yourself,” she snapped. “My dinner’s almost ready. Goodbye.”

  She’d b
een a bossy little girl, too. He grinned at her snotty tone, even though her accusation rankled. His father had had over ten years to write him a letter. To visit. But no. So now Cole was supposed to call and say, “Daddy, I’ve missed you”?

  He swore, dropped his phone on the seat beside the hard hat and put the truck back in Drive.

  * * *

  SINCE SHE REALLY needed groceries, Erin decided to shower in the high school locker room instead of waiting until she got home, like she usually did.

  She’d taken to swimming laps at the pool here at least three days a week. Usually she came earlier, but she’d worked at the library until seven this evening.

  A voice echoed in the big, concrete space. “It’s fun playing, but Mr. Whittaker doesn’t know any more than Mrs. Fisher does.”

  “I don’t think I’m going to play this year,” another girl said.

  Walking from the shower room to her locker, Erin saw a bunch of preteen to teenage girls filtering into the locker room from the gymnasium. Oh, no. They had to be taking the more advanced of the two volleyball sessions she’d read about on the Recreation Department website. How had she let herself forget? This session met twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday evenings, six to eight o’clock, allowing for teenagers who held summer jobs.

  She reached her locker, only to have two girls saunter after her, stopping just a few feet away to open lockers of their own.

  “If we all suck at setting the ball,” one of them grumbled, “how are we supposed to spike it?”

  Good question. And sad, because what everyone enjoyed most was slamming the ball over the net.

  Voices rang out from every direction, echoing in the big, concrete space. Dressing hastily, Erin couldn’t help listening to the two girls talking.

  The dark-haired girl started pulling clothes out of her locker. She had to untangle panties from skinny jeans. “You’re really not going to play?”

  The other was a tall, athletic blonde with hair cut short. “Why waste our time? Anyway, you know Mrs. Fisher doesn’t even want to coach volleyball. She only did it last year because Mr. Hoffer leaned on her.”