Borrowed Time

by Edie Claire

  He glanced down at the coffee table. A stack of books, each tagged with library stickers, lay sprawled there. The top one showed a man driving a backhoe.

  His brow furrowed. He leaned down and took the book in his hands. Road Construction Fundamentals: A Handbook for Civil Engineers. He flipped through the pages curiously. Excavation, grading, compaction, paving. It was hardly the sort of reading matter he would expect from Sarah. But hadn’t she insisted she read everything? He replaced the book and looked at the others. The Making of Our Nation’s Highways. Surveying and Site Preparation: A Civil Engineer’s Guide.

  His stomach knotted. Every one of the books was about road construction. There was no way such a selection could be a coincidence. She wanted to know something about the building of that bypass in Alabama. But why? Why would she care what happened to that wreck of a house now?

  I tried to fight it, but I lost, she had told him. She had protested the eminent domain. She hadn’t wanted to be anywhere near the house herself, and she had let it fall into complete ruin, but when it came to losing it for good, she had resisted. She seemed unduly interested in the survey stakes—in where the road itself might go. Was she seeking confirmation that the house would be destroyed, or was she, in fact, hoping for the opposite?

  All at once he got the feeling he was being watched. He raised his head.

  Sarah was standing in the doorway, staring at him. She looked petrified. She also looked furious.

  He scrambled for a cover. "Well," he said with a smile, "you claimed you read about everything, but I wasn’t sure I believed you. Now I do. But Civil Engineering? Please. Surely you can find leisure reading a little more exciting than this. Personally, I’d recommend Mack Stokes’ Major United Methodist Beliefs."

  Her expression turned deadpan. "Sounds riveting."

  He tried not to show his relief. She didn’t realize he’d made the connection. If she had, she would be throwing him out now.

  She walked on into the living room, then passed by him and headed toward her ginger ale. "I’m sure you’d find much of what I read to be on the dry side," she explained. "But it’s not really—not once you get into it. I pick a topic, I delve in, and I almost always enjoy myself. You can learn a lot by not yielding to first impressions."

  She sat down on her stool and took a sip, and he marveled at her forced nonchalance. In another minute, she might indeed be lecturing him on the Dewey decimal system. "Sarah," he said heavily.

  She offered an innocent lift of her eyebrows. "Yes?"

  He walked toward her and extended the phone. "Do you really think I’m going to forget?"

  She made no move to take it. "I was hoping."

  He sat down on the stool next to her. "Do you want me to worry about you?"

  "Of course not."

  "Then call now." When still she did nothing, he growled low in his throat. "I’ll call for you, then."

  She took the phone from his hands and set it down on the counter. "I’m perfectly capable of managing my own health."

  "You could have fooled me."

  "Well, that’s not saying much."

  He fought a grin. How could she be so infuriating, and yet so blasted attractive, at the same time? "I’m not leaving until you call. You’ll probably need a ride to the ER anyway, so let’s get this show on the road."

  Her blue eyes fixed on his, and for a long moment, she seemed lost in contemplation. Her gaze made him nervous. Either she was sizing him up to test another lie, or she was plotting a whole new defense strategy. He didn’t care for either prospect.

  "It’s not fair to you," she said softly.

  He drew in a breath. "What isn’t?"

  "Your feeling like you have to take care of me. I know how much you must hate dealing with doctors and hospitals after what you went through with your wife. I want you to stop feeling responsible for me."

  A tide of warmth welled up within him. She was perceptive, and she was compassionate. Just two more reasons why her request was impossible to follow. "I’m used to dealing with doctors and hospitals," he assured. "It’s a part of my job. And I appreciate your concern, but I’m going to continue to worry about you until you stop passing out, and there’s nothing you can do about it."

  He picked up the phone again. This time, he finished dialing.

  ***

  Melissa Gardner’s intelligent hazel eyes bore into Adam’s, and their unspoken message chilled him. "You know I can’t share any of the details of Sarah’s situation with you," she reminded. "At least, not unless she wants me to."

  "Of course," he replied, certain that Sarah, who was out of earshot getting dressed, would agree to no such thing. But Melissa didn’t have much of a poker face. "You’re sending her home?"

  The doctor nodded. "It’s not my preference, but she’s adamant about not being hospitalized—at least not yet. I’ve agreed to continue working with her as an outpatient, but only if she agrees to certain conditions, one of which is that she needs to have someone watching her."

  "I see."

  "Adam?"

  "Yes."

  "I hope you’re not—" She broke off, then shook her head. "Never mind. It’s not my business."

  She started to turn away, but he grabbed her arm. "Sure it is. Tell me what you were going to say."

  The doctor looked at him with a peculiar mixture of respect and sadness. He had only known Melissa for a little over a year, but he admired her tremendously. Not only because she was such a devoted church member, or even because she was a dedicated-enough physician to go back into her office on a Tuesday evening just to spare a friend a trip to the emergency room. He admired her because she was, hands down, one of the sharpest, most discerning individuals he’d ever met. "You do realize that Sarah’s condition could be serious," she continued. "Don’t you?"

  His pulse began to pound. "Yes, I do."

  She knows, he thought soberly. The doctor could tell that his feelings for Sarah were more than just neighborly. Was the depth of his distress that visible? Was there something about the way he looked at Sarah? He hadn’t touched her again. He’d been careful about that.

  "All right," Melissa responded, her smile still tempered with sadness. "I just wanted to make sure."

  He couldn’t ask her anything more. Sarah reappeared. She walked out into the waiting room with an artificial grin and patted the black box at her waist. "Frankenstein’s all set," she announced. Then she thanked her doctor and signaled her readiness to leave. Melissa showed them out, and they returned to Adam’s car.

  "Well," he asked as he buckled. "Did she say whatever it was you expected?"

  "Precisely," Sarah answered, her tone falsely upbeat. "It’s just a waiting game, really. I need to pass out while I’m wired. It’s the only way I can get a firm diagnosis. But I will get a diagnosis, and then I can get it taken care of. There are treatments. It’s not hopeless."

  "Of course it’s not," he declared, more forcefully than intended.

  She was quiet for a moment. Then her voice turned meek. "Can I ask you something?"

  He nodded.

  "If you wouldn’t mind terribly, I really could use a competent chauffeur for the next few days. Raoul wasn’t as bad as Dustin, but he did ask me if my husband mowed our lawn himself. It’s no big deal, really, but—"

  "Of course. I’ll be happy to."

  He tried to halt the rush of heat into his face, but wasn’t sure if he succeeded. No wonder the woman mistrusted men. Was she hit on by every one she came across?

  Probably.

  His temperature edged up a degree. He remembered the fear in Sarah’s eyes as she gazed at that accursed mattress, and again he felt rage toward a man he’d never met. No doubt Sarah’s attacker had walked away unpunished. Where was he now? Did she even know?

  "You don’t look happy to," she responded, watching him with concern.

  He plastered an artificial smile on his face. "Sorry," he answered swiftly. "I was thinking about something else."


  Chapter 19

  Sarah propped up the pillows at the head of her bed and lay down, attempting to convince herself that it felt good to be alone again. Between Rose’s and Adam’s babysitting, she hadn’t had a spare unwatched moment in which to begin the unpleasant task before her. Adam had hung around for hours after returning her from Melissa’s office last night, leaving only when she insisted she was ready for bed. Even then, he had called back later to assure himself she was still all right. Had he not had a church meeting he might have stayed with her this evening too, but instead Rose had taken a shift, feeding her a mouth-watering Tex Mex casserole and then teaching her some line-dancing steps to go with it.

  She should have hated their fussing; felt smothered. Instead, she had enjoyed every minute of it. So much so that her house now seemed strangely empty.

  She glanced at the pile of books on her nightstand and drew in a heavy breath. She had no more excuses. It was time. Facing the grim reality of her situation would be difficult, but now more than ever, she was determined to fight. She had thought of little else the last twenty-four hours besides the feeling she’d had waking up in Adam’s arms.

  She knew it was selfish of her. But she wanted to feel it again.

  She lifted the top book from the stack on her nightstand and pulled it into her lap. Her pulse pounded. Road Construction Fundamentals: A Handbook for Civil Engineers. A backhoe graced the book’s cover.

  Images roared into her head like a cyclone. A crumbling, decrepit house. A crane. A wrecking ball. The walls caving in in a choking cloud of dust. Men in orange vests standing around, everywhere. Surveyors, equipment operators. Swarming. Measuring. Sifting. Digging. Pushing mounds of earth. Smoking. Laughing out loud. Then suddenly, one of them would shout…

  Her lungs shuddered. She slipped the book back onto the stack and slowed her breathing. She would read the book. She would definitely read it. Just not right this second, now, before bed.

  She eased her head back onto the pillows, ashamed of herself. She knew what she was afraid of. She was afraid that the books would confirm her worst-case scenario—nip her fragile, new-found sense of optimism in the bud.

  She could not let herself give up. Not if there was one chance in a million that the nightmare she envisioned wasn’t a foregone conclusion.

  She thought of Rose and Adam. She attempted to concentrate.

  Was there a way out—even if the worst did happen at the farm? She had heard no one mention him in years. Granted, she had not stayed in Auburn long enough to hear much gossip. At Dee’s funeral, his cousin had told her that he had skipped town, and she had found that comforting. But what had happened since?

  With one determined motion, she swung her feet onto the floor and rose. She strode into what was supposed to be a dining room and sat down at her computer. Her finger punched the power button, and the machine whirred. Her heart was beating rapidly again, but at least its rhythm was regular.

  Maybe she couldn’t face the construction books—and the nightmares they would surely provoke—tonight. But there were other, less gruesome angles to pursue. A little background check on him would be simple. It was certainly long overdue.

  Her fingers hovered over the mouse as the screen flickered to life. She clicked herself online and pulled up the search engine. Then she stalled.

  She had never even known his last name. How could she possibly look him up?

  All she had ever heard Dee call him was Rock. He might have shared the same last name as his cousin, but could she even remember that? They were a shiftless lot, all of them. Sarah’s parents had hated Dee's hanging out at their place; the patriarch was in jail as much as not. What was their name?

  She wracked her brain. She could come up with nothing that sounded right, but she did have a strong feeling that the name was a common one. Jones. Simpson. Something like that. Dee had dated so many lowlifes, Sarah never could keep up with them. She had always stayed two chapters behind—

  Her mind snapped to attention. Of course. She might never remember Rock’s cousin’s surname, and she had probably never even heard his own. But Dee knew.

  She withdrew her hand from the mouse and rose, then moved to the rear bedroom. The banker’s box of her sister’s things was packed carefully into a spare closet, along with several boxes of her own childhood mementos. She pulled it out and popped the lid.

  Yearbooks. A fast-pitch softball trophy. The rest were all loose papers and journals. Dee had never been much of a collector, and her accolades had been few and far between. But what Sarah thought was most important to her sister, she had kept. And at the top of that list was her writing.

  Dee had been a prolific writer, even in grade school. Most of what she wrote was fabrication—unlike Sarah, she had never cared much for facts. But as she grew older the one real thing that did fascinate her was her own love life, and she had taken great pleasure in dramatizing it. Their parents had become concerned, in Dee’s later years, that such writing was a compulsion, perhaps even a sign of schizophrenia. But Sarah had disagreed. Dee was high strung; she was emotional. In retrospect, Sarah thought her sister might even have been bipolar. But Dee didn’t write because she heard voices in her head. She wrote because she enjoyed it.

  Sarah dug through the stack of once-blank, hardback books. Not for Dee the quintessential calendar diary—she preferred her exploits be in novel format. A fun date might be half a chapter; a dramatic break-up, two. Her social life had been a whirlwind after high school, and she had started filling books in a matter of months. Sarah had read them all religiously, at Dee’s insistence, but she couldn’t keep up. Dee was never still dating whatever guy Sarah read about, and the latest pregnancy scare had long since been resolved. Dee preferred writing to talking even, leaving Sarah’s real-time questions answered all too often with the irritating "you’ll just have to read about it!"

  A flash of blue caught Sarah’s eye. She grasped the book in question and pulled it out. It was the last one Dee had written in. Most of the books were red and plain, but she remembered this one. She had seen it in a store, admired its floral design, and bought it for her sister.

  She sat down on the floor, the book in her lap. Dee had written nothing after their parents died. Sarah knew because she had checked the last entry shortly after Dee’s death, hoping to find some small nugget of comfort. She had not. To her knowledge, the only words her sister wrote after the tragedy were those of her suicide notes.

  Sarah flipped through the book, plunging in a thumb at the point where ink-covered pages met white. She did remember what Dee’s last chapter had been about. It had been about him.

  She fingered forward to the beginning of the chapter.

  It’s not like I was looking for trouble. Okay, I might sometimes, but on this particular day I wasn’t. I liked Tommy; we were still having a good time. I had no plans to break up with him. He was super hot for me, and I liked his body: tall, lanky, and smooth.

  Sarah skipped ahead impatiently. Dee could write reasonably well for a teenager, but she had always gone on far too long with physical descriptions, particularly those of the opposite sex.

  We were out on his porch drinking some Cokes, and Brett and Toni were there.

  Martin, Sarah thought with a flush of pride, the images swiftly coming back to her. Tommy and Brett Martin. The Martin’s farm was only a few miles from their own, and it was a renowned dump. Skinny chickens were always roaming onto the highway in front of it, and the yard was littered with rusted car and tractor parts.

  It seemed like an ordinary Saturday. We were just kicking back, having some laughs. Then we heard a really loud engine.

  Sarah averted her eyes. She could not read everything Dee had written; it was too likely to sicken her. She knew how the chapter would go. Dee would describe meeting the new guy, detail every inch of his physique, then lapse into some drivel about how he undressed her with his eyes. Dee would wallow in artificial guilt over whatever guy she was dumping—for all of a paragraph
or so—then slide right on into another first date.

  Sarah didn’t need to read all that. All she needed was a name. Whatever details Dee might occasionally have fudged, Sarah knew that all her characters were real.

  She returned her eyes to the page and skimmed.

  He had the blackest hair, like he was foreign…

  Clearly older than Tommy, though at the time I didn’t know how much…

  His stare moved down—

  Sarah exhaled. She closed her eyes. Just a name, she told herself. Forget the rest. Don’t think about it.

  Tommy walked up and gave him a high five, but he didn’t look all that happy to see him. He kept looking back at me like he knew there were sparks flying, and there wasn’t much I could do, because there were. "This is my girlfriend, Dee," he said, with an emphasis on the ‘girlfriend.’ "Dee, this is my cousin Rock." I liked the name right away. It was strong and it was cool, just like him. He smiled at me, and gave a kind of a wink…

  "Rock what?" Sarah said aloud, frustrated. She had already known that much. It wasn’t the kind of name one forgot easily. But she doubted that it was his given name, and even if it was, she could do nothing with it alone.

  She skimmed further, her eyes touching each line as if it were caustic. All Dee talked about now was Tommy, his reaction to his cousin’s bedroom eyes, his growing agitation. Next followed the inevitable breakup scene, which dripped with the high drama Dee was so famous for.

  I was sure he was going to break down in tears on me, and I wondered, for a split second, if I was doing the right thing. But I didn’t feel the same way about him anymore. I had to see how things went with Rockney, because I couldn’t stop thinking about him.