by Edie Claire
He heard nothing.
Her trail led around the side of the house. He followed it to where it passed near the back porch, then left it to climb the steps. The landscape sloped gently downward from where he stood, and he soon located his quarry. The tops of the weeds were moving about a hundred yards away.
This time he didn’t call to her. He just headed out.
Perhaps she had been reliving her sister's suicide. Perhaps Sarah had found Dee's body in the very spot where the mattress lay, or perhaps the mattress itself had been Dee’s. But he didn't think so.
The weeds ahead gave way suddenly, and he found himself standing in a narrow, freshly bush-hogged trail. He would have liked to have stayed on it, but as it stretched to the left and right, he knew it would take him no closer to Sarah. He reentered the weeds on the other side and kept moving.
He hated the thoughts brewing in his head. It was hard enough to imagine the suffering that losing three family members would inflict on a teenaged girl. To think that there might have been more… It was inconceivable.
Yet from his first encounter with Sarah, he suspected that she had been maltreated by a man, and nothing she had said since had changed his mind. The barroom brawl story hadn’t explained her terror at the cemetery, nor could it explain her reaction to the mattress and mirror. Most people, faced with such a spectacle in their own home, would feel a mixture of anger and disgust. But Sarah’s eyes had filled with horror. The nature of her response had chilled him, and empathy had driven him toward her. But he had been several feet away, still, when she had shouted at him. Shouted at him not to touch her.
She had been reliving a rape.
His heart pounded, and the vessels in his temples throbbed. He was angry. He was so angry he felt like he would explode, and if the heat around him didn’t abate soon, he was certain he would. He wanted to murder a man, and he didn’t even know who. He wanted to strangle the life out of him.
Nine years. If Adam was right, what had happened to Sarah had happened at least that long ago. And she was still profoundly affected by it. Had she ever had any counseling? Had it happened before her parents’ deaths? After? Even with professional help, how could any girl experience such trauma on top of the loss of three loved ones and ever be whole again? Particularly when she lacked any semblance of faith?
"Sarah!" he shouted, his frustration clear in his voice. He thought he had come far enough to intersect with her trail, but there was no sign of it. The landscape had leveled, and he could no longer see downhill. Where was she? How far would she run before realizing what she was doing?
He had to find her. Not only was she emotionally distraught, but the jury was still out on the state of her health. Running around in this heat could be dangerous for her.
It was about to be for him. He needed a drink of water so badly he was on the verge of lightheadedness.
"Sarah!" he called again. "I know you can hear me. And if you don’t answer me in the next twenty seconds, I’m going to assume you passed out again, and I’m going to call the police and an ambulance and get them all out here looking for you. Is that what you want?"
He stopped abruptly, cursing under his breath at the anger he could hear broiling in his own voice. Sarah had run because she was frightened, and he was a hot-headed idiot. How could she possibly understand that he wasn't angry at her, but at what had been done to her? No wonder she wasn't answering him.
"I’m here."
He froze. Her voice was coming from somewhere to his left, downhill. "Where’s here?" he called more gently.
"By the pond."
Adam swiveled his head. He had seen a patch of stagnant water from the porch earlier, but he couldn’t see a thing now. Just weeds, bushes, and more weeds. He moved toward the sound of her voice, and in a few seconds, found himself on another plowed lane.
"Sarah?"
She appeared at his left and walked toward him. She looked wilted, like a cut flower. Her hair was damp, and her blue cotton shirt was plastered to her lithe frame. But to his surprise, she seemed eerily calm. Too calm. Only after her eyes surveyed him did she adopt a worried expression.
"I’m sorry," she said softly. "You didn’t have to chase after me. I just needed a minute to collect myself, that’s all."
Adam didn’t answer. Her flight did seem to have drained her of whatever emotion she had been running from, but he himself was far from collected. He couldn’t look at her without imagining what she’d suffered, and he couldn’t imagine what she’d suffered without feeling rage.
"You’re angry with me, aren’t you?" she asked, not sounding afraid so much as remorseful. "Don’t worry, I don’t blame you. I make one lousy hostess."
"I’m not angry with you," he reassured hastily. Then he took a long, slow breath. Damn, he was thirsty. "I just get cranky when I’m dehydrated. Are you all right?"
She nodded. Then she moved back in the direction she had come, walking up to a survey stake that had been driven in the ground beside the plowed area. She ran a finger over its cryptic markings, tossing her head in the direction of the pond behind her. "Would you believe that we used to swim in that?"
Her voice was casual, light, almost jesting. But even as she talked, a shudder wracked her body; her limbs trembled.
Adam pulled his eyes away from her long enough to glance in the direction indicated. The small pond at which the mowed trail ended was anything but inviting. Its edges were clogged with mushy vegetation, and half its surface was coated with a thick green slime.
He could think of no response.
Sarah continued to study the stake. "There was another one of these uphill, closer to the house. What do you think they mark?"
Her hands were still shaking. Her voice cracked.
Keeping a respectable distance between them took every ounce of self-control Adam possessed.
He breathed in deeply. The question might seem as idle as her last one, but he didn't think it was. Was she wondering whether her house was directly in the path of the new road? Did she want to make sure it would be destroyed?
"I have no idea how to read survey stakes," he answered honestly. "But no matter where the road cuts through, I’m sure the county will raze the house. They won’t want the liability."
Sarah showed no reaction to his statement. She remained standing perfectly still, looking out into the weeds with a pensive expression. He allowed her reverie to continue as long as he could stand it¾which didn't prove to be long. If he had to bake in this sun one second longer, he wasn't going to be able to think straight.
"I could really use something to drink, Sarah, and I’m sure you could, too. Can we go now?" He made an effort not to sound testy. Unfortunately, he failed.
To his amazement, she looked up at him with a grin.
"What?" he asked. "What’s so amusing?"
"Nothing," she answered, moving toward him. "I just like that you’ve got a temper. It proves you’re human." She walked around him, carelessly brushing his shoulder as she passed by.
His reaction to her touch was involuntary; but with an effort, he squelched it.
"Did I ever claim not to be?" he questioned, keeping his eyes carefully away from her sweat-soaked shirt as she headed uphill through the weeds.
"No," she answered thoughtfully, not looking at him. "But as much as you’ve done for me the last week, you might qualify as a guardian angel."
He absorbed the comment. He decided he liked it.
"Does that mean you believe in angels?" he challenged, following her.
She chuckled over her shoulder.
"Nice try, preacher man."
***
It took three large pink lemonades, six chicken strips with honey barbecue sauce, a clean shirt, a touchup of deodorant, and twenty minutes of air conditioning to make Adam feel like himself again. But now that he was ensconced in a restaurant booth with frigid air blasting straight down on his head, he was comfortable enough to resume worrying about Sarah.
To
his chagrin, she had said nothing further about her outburst in the house. She had said nothing about the house at all. She had passed the drive into town sitting quietly in her seat, staring at the paintings she clutched in her lap, slowly shuffling them to admire each in turn. When he had asked about them, she had explained that her father had wanted to be an artist when he was young, but that his parents hadn’t approved, and he had given it up. She then thanked Adam for helping her find them, speaking of the success as though retrieving the paintings had been her one and only goal for the visit.
"Well," she announced after finishing off her red beans and rice, "I’ve done everything I needed to do here. All I ask is that you get me back to Atlanta and drop me off at the motel I picked out. I’ll relax by the pool with a good book and you can have the rest of the weekend to yourself."
Her voice was amiable, almost chipper, as if she had just spent the last few hours gardening or chatting with friends. Adam marveled at her capacity for denial.
"I’ll be spending tomorrow morning with my grandmother," she continued. "She’s at an Alzheimer’s care home a few blocks from the motel. I can walk over in the morning, but if you could pick me up in the lobby at noon I figured we could go straight to the airport afterward. Does that sound okay?"
He couldn’t answer immediately. He was too frustrated. He realized now that despite Sarah’s quip about his guardian angel status, she wanted nothing more from him. He had served his purpose; he was dismissed. She didn’t want to share her problems with him. She didn’t even want him to know she had any.
But he did know. And he hadn’t spent the morning sweating himself to a raisin because he wanted a free trip to Atlanta. He had made the journey because he cared about her. Exactly why he cared and whether or not he should was not the point. The fact was, he could no more stop himself from caring, from trying to help her heal her obvious emotional wounds, than he could walk away from a starving man while toting a canteen and a ham sandwich.
"Sarah," he began, attempting a matter-of-fact tone. "After you lost your family, did you get professional counseling?"
She stiffened, as he knew she would. But her defensive reaction didn’t last. She stifled it in a heartbeat, returning to her false front of equanimity. "Of course," she answered. "My aunt took me right after Dee died. I was a mess."
"How long did you go?" he pressed.
"All summer. Why? You don’t think it worked?"
He smiled. Her dry wit amused him, even if she did use it like a weapon. "Sarah," he said frankly, "after everything you’ve been through, I think it’s a miracle you can tie your shoelaces. You’re a very strong person."
She looked back at him with genuine appreciation. "Thank you."
"You’re welcome." He forged ahead. "But there’s a difference between being strong and being superhuman."
Her eyes flashed a brief distress signal, but her voice stayed light. "Meaning?"
"Meaning that no normal mortal could go back to the house where she had grown up with parents who died so tragically and where her sister had committed suicide; find all her family’s possessions looted, misappropriated, or destroyed; and come away from the experience with a smile on her face talking about spending the evening with a good book."
Her jaw muscles clenched. "Did it ever occur to you that I just might not want to share my personal life with you?"
The barb hit its mark, and for a second, Adam's resolve faltered. But with an effort, he shrugged it off. He would not take her defensive tactics personally. "That would be fine," he said agreeably, "except that I don’t see anyone else around. And frankly, you could do a lot worse. I’m a good listener."
"You’re also a minister," she said heavily. "Which means you have an angle."
Adam's eyes widened, perplexed. He was used to his profession being an asset; people usually felt safe trusting him with their confidences. "And that would be…"
"You know perfectly well," she admonished. She was smiling at him now, and her tone was teasing, but he could sense the candor behind her words. "Saving my soul from eternal damnation in a lake of everlasting hellfire. Or boosting your church roster…whichever. You may start out all nice and undemanding, but eventually, you plan to start sliding in the pitches. Come to this, check out that. It’s for your own good, and oh, by the way, here’s the collection plate."
He studied her a moment, speechless. For an intelligent person who read so much, she had a terribly warped view of religion. He wondered where it had come from. Regardless, he couldn't fix it today.
He smiled back at her instead. "No," he said finally, pretending to have made a tough decision. "You can go to some other church if you want, but the last thing I need is a parishioner who can watch my every move out her front windows. I prefer to keep my personal life separate from my job." The last line was such a crock, he could hardly deliver it with a straight face. He’d never had any personal life separate from his job.
She eyed him skeptically. "So, you’re not the least bit interested in saving my soul?"
He contemplated, taking his time. Her brilliant blue eyes were especially fetching when she challenged him. "If I say no," he began slowly, "you’ll assume that I’m in favor of your burning in an everlasting lake of hellfire. But if I say yes, you’ll accuse me of trying to manipulate you for my own selfish gain. So you tell me—which answer would you prefer?"
She grinned. "You’re good. You know that?"
He grinned back. "Why, thank you. Care to make a donation?"
She laughed out loud. The sound of her voice was musical, and the knowledge that he had made her happy, if only for a second, affected him more deeply than he expected. He wanted to hear that laugh again. He wanted to hear it often.
But he knew it would never happen if he kept letting her distract him. "Sarah, I’m not trying to criticize you for the way you’re handling things. But the fact is, if I was an old friend of yours—instead of being some smarmy minister you only met a week ago—we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about our plans for tomorrow. You’d be venting your anger about how perfectly horrible this morning was, and you’d keep on venting until you felt better."
He wanted to ask her about her fear. He wanted to know the whole story of what had happened to her when she was young, and he wanted to make sure she had the proper help in dealing with it. But for right now, he would be happy if she shared anything she was feeling. Anything at all.
"So," he suggested. "Couldn’t you just pretend that I’m an old friend? We can get back in the car, you can rant and rave all you want, and you’ll feel better by the time we hit the state line. I promise."
He watched her as she considered. She was fascinating to watch no matter what she was doing. Her hair was dry now, as was her shirt. The latter was fortunate for his concentration.
"The problem with you extroverts," she said critically, "is that you assume that what works for you must work for everybody. But I don’t like to babble about my feelings."
"Don’t babble then," he suggested, undeterred. "Just state. But state the reality, not some sugar-coated nonsense you came up with for my benefit. I know you’re furious. Why not admit it?"
"I’m furious," she said flatly.
"Excellent!" he praised. "So am I. It was ridiculously hot out there, and you should have warned me there was no running water for five miles in any direction. We could have at least brought drinks with us."
She leveled her eyes at him. "There was root beer on the stairs."
He wanted to laugh at that one, but he couldn’t afford to get off track again. "And you’re furious with whom, exactly? Your uncle?"
She paused. "No. I’ve got nobody to blame but myself."
"Why? Because you didn’t check up on things more often? Force your uncle to sell?"
She threw him a hard look, making clear that she knew exactly what he was doing.
He stared back without apology.
She rolled her eyes with a sigh. But then, to his delight,
she capitulated. "Because I should have realized that being so isolated made the house a sitting duck for vandals. Because I should never have left my family’s belongings unguarded—I should have insisted on moving everything to a storage unit years ago. What happened happened because I didn’t want to deal with it. Because I wasn’t strong enough to face it." She stopped and looked at him. "There. How was that?"
Adam's heart thudded in his chest. At last.
"Fantastic," he praised. But how strong do you expect yourself to be? Did you really think that you could go back there and not feel anything at all?"
"Of course not," she said sharply. "I knew it would be difficult. That’s why I wanted your company. I thought having someone else there would distract me. It did, at first. But—"
She broke off.
"But what?" he asked quickly. "But then you saw the mattress?"
Too far. He wanted to catch the words in the air, pull them back. But it was too late. Sarah’s eyes flashed with alarm, and her face paled.
"What mattress?"
Damn his loose tongue! "The mattress on the living room floor," he explained, trying to rid his voice of emotion. Perhaps he could tell her what he had observed, just not what he suspected. She wasn’t ready for that. "Seeing it obviously upset you. I thought that’s what you were about to say."
Her blue eyes searched his again. She didn’t answer for a long time. When she did, her voice was contrite. "I yelled at you, didn’t I?"
She looked so mortified, he couldn't help but smile. Of all the things for her to worry about! "Maybe a little," he said easily.
She didn’t smile back. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what I was saying. I was just so disgusted." She paused and took a breath. Her eyes fixed on the cup in her hands. "I suppose it was childish of me. But I think that was my mattress."
Adam's smile disappeared. She was lying to him again. She was skilled at thinking up quick, plausible explanations, but she could never convince him that her flight from that house had been motivated by anything but cold, raw fear.
