She glanced up and down the hallway. “Come in,” she said, opening the door wider. “It’s the safety chain. Can you fix it?” He stepped into the room, stared blankly at the safety chain, and mumbled, “Yeah, sure.”
What were the odds of having her turn up here? It was unbelievable. If fate was dealing the hand, he didn’t like how it was shaping up. It came with too many painful memory cards.
He thought of telling her who he was but decided against it. That would only make things more awkward than they already were. Too much of the past would be dredged up. Remember the time when . . . ? And Turner wanted to keep the past where it belonged. In the past.
He fumbled in his toolbox for a screwdriver, anxious to do the job and clear out. With luck she’d leave the next day, and the memories of high school that she evoked would become dormant again.
“Thank you,” she said. “I really appreciate it. I hope I’m not being a pain about this.”
Nope. Only the memories you’ve conjured up. “No problem,” he replied with practiced politeness.
As he loosened the screws to the door latch, he glanced at her as she crossed to the window and lifted the edge of the curtain, peering down into the street below. Then she dropped the curtain and paced the floor, glancing toward the bedroom door of the suite where, Turner guessed, the little boy was sleeping.
He wondered why Cassandra wasn’t staying with her parents. Perhaps they had moved away . . . like his had. In that case why wasn’t she staying with friends? There were probably several still in town. He stole a glance at her ring finger. She was wearing a wedding ring, and he wondered where her husband was.
As he removed the old safety chain and installed the new one, he struggled to keep his mind on his work. It proved difficult, especially when she peered over his shoulder to check on his progress. He caught the scent of her hair, and he could feel her breath on the back of his neck. The screwdriver slipped, and he banged his knuckles on the edge of the door.
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded stiffly, refusing to show the pain he felt in his throbbing knuckles.
As she turned to leave, her hair brushed against his shoulder. His hand shook as he tried to reposition the screwdriver.
She went back to the window and peered out again.
When the new safety latch was in place, he tested it to make sure it was secure. As he slid the chain into the slot, the bedroom door of the suite suddenly opened, and the little boy emerged. He had curly blond hair and large, blue eyes. A thumb was stuck in his mouth, and he wound and unwound a curl of hair around his finger. When he saw Turner, he stopped twisting his hair and walked directly to his mother, hiding behind her legs.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” Cassandra asked.
He peered from behind his mother and studied Turner cautiously. “I can’t sleep,” he replied. “I miss teddy.”
Cassandra groaned and scooped him up in her arms. She held him tightly and looked at Turner. “I forgot to bring his teddy bear,” she explained.
“Can I have drink, Mommy?”
Cassandra carried him into the bathroom but returned in a moment. “There are no cups,” she said.
“The cleaning staff must have forgotten them,” Turner said.
“We’re in the middle of training a new crew. I can grab a couple of glasses for you if you like.”
“If it’s not too much bother.”
“No bother.”
Turner stepped outside and closed the door, leaning against it momentarily. Drawing in several deep breaths, he shook his head in an effort to dislodge the memories, barbed and sharp, that vied for a place in his consciousness. Dormant images that had lurked behind his mental firewall were now moving along revitalized circuits, invading his brain. For the most part he had managed to repress the memories . . . until Cassandra reappeared on the scene.
He went to the supply room and grabbed two plastic cups, each wrapped in cellophane. He held them up and studied them, remembering a time in the high school cafeteria when Brad winked at his buddies and offered him a drink of apple juice in a plastic cup. Turner had been suspicious and rightly so. It turned out to be a urine specimen for biology class.
Other memories followed. He remembered being invited to a party for Jen McCaffery, one of the cheerleaders. When he arrived, he saw Cassandra and was just building up the courage to talk to her when Jen intercepted him and told him his job was to walk her dog so it didn’t bark when the fun started. He also remembered the time in his junior year when he opened his locker door and a dead cat, with bulging eyes and a misshapen body, tumbled out and landed with a splat on his shoes. Brad and the other pranksters laughed for a week over their roadkill joke. The same length of time it took for the scent to disappear from Turner’s locker.
Shaking off the memories, Turner looked down at his hand. It had closed into a fist, crushing the cups. He tossed them in the trash and got two more. Then he made his way back to Room 21 and knocked on the door.
It opened until the safety chain pulled tight.
“It’s me,” he said.
The door closed so Cassandra could undo the chain. Then it reopened, and Turner handed her the plastic cups. She took them gratefully and went to the sink in the bathroom.
As Turner retrieved his toolbox, he saw the little boy peering at him from behind the couch. Turner smiled and wiggled his fingers in greeting. The corners of the little boy’s mouth curved into a half smile, and he wiggled a finger in reply.
Cassandra returned with the cup of water and knelt beside her son, offering it to him. He took a long, slow drink, and Turner could hear the little boy’s muffled breath coming in short gasps. It took him a full minute to drink the cup of water, and he did a great deal of backwashing in the process. The water kept moving in and out of the cup. Perhaps he was stalling, looking for an excuse to stay up later, curious about who Turner was. Or perhaps he was delaying going to bed without teddy.
Finally Turner heard a slurping noise and the sound of hollow breath into the empty plastic cup.
“Say good night to the nice man, Justin,” Cassandra said patiently, kissing her son on the cheek.
“Nighty night,” the little boy said, wiggling two fingers at Turner this time.
“Good night, Justin,” Turner replied, gathering up his toolbox and opening the door.
“Thanks for everything,” Cassandra added.
“You’re welcome,” Turner said, stepping into the hallway and closing the door. He waited for his heartbeat to decelerate. Talking face-to-face with Cassandra Todd had been surreal . . . like an episode of The Twilight Zone.
He wanted to head to his room and suppress the memories of high school by watching TV, but he knew Harvey would be waiting for him. Whenever Harvey said, “Right away,” he expected a report when the job was done. Otherwise he would worry, and that was not good for his blood pressure.
As Turner dropped off his toolbox and headed for Harvey’s room, he imagined his boss keeping a giant to-do list taped to the door of his refrigerator. Harvey’s mission in life was to continually add items to the list. Turner’s was to make sure they were crossed off, one by one.
Safety chain on Room 21.
Harvey could now get a good night’s sleep, his blood pressure percolating on normal.
Turner did have an ulterior motive. He wanted to pump Harvey for information and find out how long Cassandra was staying. Hopefully only overnight.
Harvey answered the door, his hair disheveled and his chin speckled with grey stubble. “Done?” he asked, economizing words.
Turner nodded, economizing even more.
“Good, good. Everything okay?”
“Perfect, sir,” Turner replied.
“Then I’ll turn in. But for all the good it’s going to do me.
Know what I’m saying?”
Turner did.
His boss kept a second list, one enumerating his personal aches and pains, which he reviewed and recounted daily. If Turner got a
n earful, he could only image what Loretta heard. She was a woman of epic proportions, which conveniently provided room for the saint within her to grow.
“This arthritis is killing me,” Harvey said. “I go to bed, but all I do is toss and turn, toss and turn.”
“And don’t I know it,” came Loretta’s voice behind him.
Apparently she still had a ways to go on the path to sainthood.
“I ache in every joint and finally get up and pace around. But it doesn’t help. You’d think by now they’d have a cure for arthritis.”
“It’s a tribulation, sir.”
“Tell me about it,” Loretta muttered.
Harvey spoke on, describing other tribulations. Turner sometimes wondered if Harvey endured the aches and pains so he’d have something to gripe about. Harvey loved to complain, and he did it in his own unique way . . . in triplicate.
When he had listed enough complaints for three people, Harvey waved his hand in dismissal and began to close the door.
“Wait,” Loretta called, appearing behind him moments later. She wore a housecoat and had her hair done up in curlers. She held a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies, Turner’s favorite. “Have some cookies,” she said. “I made them earlier this evening.”
“Thanks, Mama Retta. They look heavenly.”
This was no overstatement or attempt on his part to be polite. Loretta—he affectionately called her Mama Retta—couldn’t spoil a recipe if she was blindfolded, suspended upside down, and required to work with one fleshy arm tied behind her back.
“Better try one first,” she said. “I’m not sure I used enough sugar.”
Turner ate the cookie slowly to give the impression he was preparing a verdict. A wine taster of cookies. “I’d love another one, ma’am.”
Satisfied, she handed him the plate. As Harvey reached for a cookie, she swatted his hand. “These are for Turner. Yours are in the cookie jar.” She winked at Turner and stepped back inside.
Turner waited a moment and then discreetly offered Harvey a cookie, priming the pump in order to siphon what information he could from his boss.
“So what’s the story with Room Twenty-One, sir?” Turner asked, leaning against the doorjamb and savoring a second cookie.
Harvey chewed quietly. “I don’t poke my nose where it don’t belong.”
Turner maintained a poker face even though a line like that deserved a good laugh. “What brings her here?” he asked, knowing that if he could find the right combination, his boss would open up like a vault door.
Harvey took another bite. “I don’t ask those kind of things.”
“What about the boy? Hers?”
“I only ask about pets, not kids. She doesn’t have a pet, so I didn’t ask. But I will tell you one thing, she’s nervous about something.”
Turner had noticed it too. She had peered out of the curtains several times and paced the floor like a caged animal. “Nervous, sir?” he repeated in encouragement, offering Harvey another cookie.
“She said she was in town on business, and she paid for two nights in advance. Her credit card went through, that’s all that matters.”
Two nights.
Armed with that information, Turner took the last of the cookies and handed Harvey the empty plate. As he approached his room, he wondered if Cassandra, one floor above and three doors down, was still peeking out of the window and pacing the floor, while her son slept restlessly, missing teddy.
After consuming another cookie, Turner brushed his teeth and climbed in bed. He finally fell into a restless sleep, his dreams centered on the biggest dream determinant he’d experienced since graduating from high school. The return of Cassandra Todd.
CHAPTER 4
CASSANDRA SAT ON the couch in her motel room, gently rocking her son. With his thumb stuck securely in his mouth, Justin made soft sounds as his eyes grew heavier and finally closed. She paused to shift his weight but his eyes opened, so she continued rocking him.
She looked into his face and smiled as he worked on his thumb. Brushing a strand of curly, blond hair from his forehead, she fought to hold back the tears of relief that were welling in the corners of her eyes. This was the first moment she’d been able to relax in what seemed like days, although less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since they left Las Vegas.
Their departure had been planned for months, but she had not actually put her plan into operation until two nights ago. Until after the most recent beating and her husband’s ultimate threat to direct his anger at Justin. Later, when her husband went to “cool off” at the bar, she quickly packed a suitcase with everything she could fit inside: two changes of clothes for her and Justin, her wallet—containing what little money she could scrape together, along with a credit card her husband had forgotten about—and her passport and a large envelope she had taken from the wall safe in the den.
She hid the suitcase in the trunk of her car, certain it was safe from detection. She prepared a sack lunch, along with an explanation should her husband make inquiries. She and Justin were going on a picnic with some church friends, she would say. It wasn’t true, of course, but her husband wouldn’t question it.
After checking the bus schedules—she didn’t dare take her car for fear it could be easily traced—she decided to catch the early bus for Denver. But she couldn’t leave while her husband was at the bar because she needed a bigger head start. So she waited until he returned home, drunk and incoherent, and fell asleep. That gave time for her to get Justin and slip away unnoticed.
A cold chill crept up her spine. She had crossed a line by leaving her husband and had passed the point of no return. She couldn’t simply go back home, apologize for even thinking of leaving, return the envelope, and resume her life as if nothing had happened. The consequences would be too severe, beginning and ending with her husband’s fists. No, she had no choice but to forge ahead.
She noticed a copy of Gideon’s Bible sitting on the end table beside a brochure advertising the Mountain View Motel and its amenities. She picked up the Bible and thumbed through the pages. Her eyes fell on a passage in the Book of Ruth:
Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.
The tears began to fall as Cassandra pondered the words. She knew people who had used this verse during their wedding ceremony. Now a sense of guilt pierced her because she had broken her wedding vow. But her husband had broken his vow too. To love and to cherish, to love and protect had become meaningless to him. His fists proved that.
After laying the Bible aside, she carried Justin into the bedroom and put him on the bed. He didn’t stir as she slipped him between the covers. She lingered to look at him, worried about what the future held, but certain she was doing the right thing.
She had been willing to stay with her husband for the sake of their marriage and try to work things out. She could have put up with the heartache he put her through while she tried to change him with love. She was willing to do this and more. But when he angrily threatened to turn his fists on their son . . .
CHAPTER 5
TURNER AWOKE THE following morning, blurry-eyed and brain-weary. He grabbed a bite to eat and then got dressed and went downstairs to the maintenance room. There was a list from Harvey, starting with a plugged toilet in Room 15. Unclogging drains and toilets was not at the top of Turner’s fun-to-do list, but that’s why Harvey paid him the big bucks, as his boss called it.
Taking his toolbox and a plunger with him, Turner went to Room 15. “Maintenance,” he called, knocking on the door.
A woman appeared in the opening and explained that her daughter had flushed a toy before she could stop her. A yellow rubber duck was “swimming” in the toilet bowl at the time. One hour and some bruised knu
ckles later, Turner retrieved the duck, which the mother promptly threw in the trash.
The next job sent him to Room 25, four doors down from Cassandra’s. He passed her room on the way, praying the door didn’t suddenly fly open and she’d emerge. Hopefully she was still in bed, recovering from a sleepless night. Maybe she’d already left with her son to take care of some personal business. Perhaps visit friends. But somehow he knew she was still here. Her presence seemed to register in his bones like a psychic vibration.
He knocked on the door to Room 25. When no one answered, he let himself in with his passkey to replace a burned-out light bulb in the bathroom. The job didn’t require a master’s degree in engineering, but someone had to do it. He put the light bulb in his tool kit to drop off at the maintenance room later so Harvey could see physical evidence of a completed job and happily cross off another item.
He followed this up with a visit to Room 28, where the air conditioner was blowing only warm air. Harvey wouldn’t be happy if the unit had to be sent out for repairs or, heaven forbid, a new one had to be installed. Keeping his boss’s blood pressure down, which meant being creative and inventive, was a top priority. He was only half kidding when he referred to duct tape and chewing gum as part of his arsenal of tools.
Turner started down the stairs, on the way back to the maintenance room, when he heard voices from the level below. There was no mistaking them. Cassandra and Justin.
He tried to retreat the way he’d come, but it was too late.
“Good morning,” Cassandra said, carrying a small grocery bag. Her hair hung loosely at her shoulders and glistened in the morning sun.
“Hi,” Turner replied, careful not to stare at her. Attractive packaging notwithstanding, the mere sight of Cassandra was a painful reminder of the past.
She looked at her son. “Justin, you remember the nice man who fixed our safety chain.”
“Good morning,” Justin said, his face the picture of innocence.
Turner managed a smile.
“The safety chain worked fine, by the way,” Cassandra said.
The Return of Cassandra Todd Page 3
