by EMILIE ROSE
Had he ever thought of her at all?
“All of it?”
Again, his voice jerked her back to the present, making her aware of a burn behind her sternum. Heartburn from too much coffee. That’s all. “Just the boxes.”
“No furniture?”
“No. I... I’ll probably sell it and put the money aside for Chastity.”
“You didn’t find a will?”
“No, and neither her bank or lawyer has one. I guess she never expected...”
His lips tightened. “None of us do at her age.”
He abruptly turned and, biceps flexing, lifted the largest box. His elbow grazed her breast as he brushed past her. Sparks shot through her veins like a volley of bottle rockets.
Get a grip, Rach. She hefted the heaviest box, hoping the extra exertion would override her reaction, and followed him out. No luck.
Ten minutes later Hope’s personal belongings were gone. The items saved for Chastity occupied a single box on a shelf in the closet. Rachel scanned the space. The white-on-white decor looked sterile. There was nothing here to remind her of her sister. She tried to picture Hope in this lifeless room...and couldn’t.
“Ready?” Matt asked. “There’s a storm front moving in. I’d like to unload this before it hits.”
She nodded because her throat was doing that odd spasm thing again. She grabbed her keys and wallet, followed Matt out, then climbed into the cab beside him. The tight airless compartment felt crowded, even though there was no clutter scattered around the four-door cab.
Different day. Different truck. But it smelled the same. Like Matt. The memory of his old truck, of cool vinyl against her bare back and his hot body pressed to her breasts ambushed her.
“You’re still a neat freak, I see,” she blurted to banish the image.
“You going to mess it up?” His crooked smile and the humorous glint in his eyes hurled her into the past—back to the day she’d realized she wanted to be the kind of girl who could be right for Matt Johnston.
Memories rolled through her like a rock slide. Then he faced forward and put the truck in gear, breaking the spell. She took a long, slow calming breath. “I don’t get my jollies out of creating chaos anymore.”
“Glad to hear it. For Chastity’s sake.”
The silence in the cab gave her too much time to think, to remember. “Did Hope ever mention Chastity having trouble in English to you?”
“No. Why?”
“Chastity said the new English teacher was giving her grief. I just wondered.”
“Aaron? He seems like a nice guy. Young. Enthusiastic. I suspect it’s Chastity’s attitude more than anything else that’s causing problems. A new teacher is one more change to her right now.”
“Yeah. If it comes up again, I’ll make an appointment with him. Right now she doesn’t want me to.”
“If she can handle it on her own, that would be for the best. Kids lack conflict-resolution skills these days. Too many electronics. Not enough human interaction.” He glanced at her. “Sorry. My soapbox.”
“Mine, too, because it’s true.”
Matt stopped behind one of the old stores fronting Main Street, reversed the truck and parked under a sign that read, Donation Drop Off. He climbed out and knocked on the door. It opened, and an older woman’s face lit up.
Rachel’s nerves knotted in recognition, halting her outside the truck’s door.
“Matthew Johnston. What brings you here, m’dear?”
“Rachel brought some of Hope’s things to donate.”
The woman’s smile vanished. Her lips thinned and curved downward. She wasn’t happy to see Rachel, but why would she be? During Rachel’s time here she’d cut out and painted thirty cardboard cats and staked them out in the woman’s front yard with a sign that said Crazy Cat Lady.
The hard gaze swung back to Matt. “I hope you’re smart enough not to get tangled up with her again.”
Humiliation burned Rachel. Long memories like Miss Burns’s were the reason Rachel and Chastity could never stay in Johnstonville.
“I’m sure you and the church are grateful to receive the items Rachel is donating. How about you go back inside and write up her receipt?”
The woman pinked at his gentle chastisement, pivoted and disappeared into the building.
“Don’t make enemies because of me, Matt,” Rachel said, but a small bud had opened inside her when he’d defended her.
“She needs to remember her manners.” His speculative gaze hit Rachel. “You never told me what she did to make you put those signs in her yard.”
“I took a shortcut through her yard once on the way home from school. She threw a hissy fit, claiming I scared her cats. She had a dozen.”
His lips twitched as he turned to prop open the donation door. Unloading Hope’s boxes prevented further discussion. By the time they finished, Rachel was hot and sweaty but glad to have the job done. She stepped outside to let the breeze cool her overheated body. The empty truck bed yawned.
Items her sister had spent years accumulating were going to be scattered among strangers. It was almost as if they were erasing decades of her sister’s life. Erasing Hope. But what else was she to do?
A heavy sensation settled on Rachel’s sternum. Feeling antsy, she strode to the edge of the parking lot. She hoped she wasn’t coming down with something. The intermittent tightness in her throat combined with the pressure in her chest was becoming a nuisance.
She shook it off and faced Matt. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. “Thanks for your help. I think I’ll walk home.”
He looked skyward. “Storm’s coming.”
She couldn’t get back in that truck with him. Not now. “Contrary to popular belief, I won’t melt in the rain.”
He didn’t smile. “It’s six miles, Rachel.”
“I can easily walk that in a couple of hours, and I need the exercise. I’ve been a couch potato since getting here.”
“Rach—”
“Thanks again, Matt. See ya.” Before he could say more, she headed down the street at a fast pace. She expected him to call her back. She was glad he didn’t. At the corner she encountered another victim from her past. “Hello, Mrs. Beecham.”
The woman’s scowl cut grooves in her face deeper than the Grand Canyon. “Go back to wherever you came from. You’re not welcome here,” she groused before ducking into the church store.
“Guess she hasn’t forgiven me for filling her gaudy water fountain with bubble bath,” Rachel muttered. The bubble mountain had covered half the yard. A photograph had made the local paper. Rachel had used biodegradable soap, and it hadn’t killed grass or anything. Yeah, she’d been a real prize back then. Hope had been a saint to put up with her childish behavior. Which circled her thoughts back to her sister whose belongings she’d just dumped like trash for strangers to paw through.
Why had the saintly sister died? And why hadn’t Hope’s anal-retentive, chronic-planning ways extended to drafting a will or buying life insurance? At least enough to cover her funeral?
The lawyer said the church had paid for the service. Rachel would repay them. She refused to be beholden to anyone—especially anyone in Johnstonville.
But damn Hope. Damn her for not preparing better. For not making sure Chastity had money for college and a way out of this one-horse, judgmental town. Damn Hope for not being her usually overcautious, granny-driving self and avoiding an accident. The pressure on Rachel’s chest increased. She sucked in a deep breath and walked faster.
How in the hell had Hope been careless enough to run off the road and hit a tree? Rachel hadn’t needed any of the details the lead cop had provided. The moment he’d said single-vehicle-versus-tree, her brain had filled with mental images she didn’t want. She’d worked too many similar scenes.
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Had Hope dodged an animal or been forced off the road by a drunk driver crossing the center line? The officer said there’d been no sign of another vehicle. No skid marks. No evidence of a sideswipe. Nothing.
Had Hope been texting? Surely her rule-following sister wouldn’t be that stupid? Had they found her phone in the wreckage? If so, the officer hadn’t mentioned it. Had Hope fallen asleep at the wheel?
Another idea flickered in Rachel’s subconscious. Denial couldn’t smother it. Had the lie which Hope had been living become too much of a burden for her to bear? Had Hope taken the easy way out and left Rachel to clean up after her big sister for once?
A hot coal seared Rachel’s stomach. It burned her throat and stung her eyes. She picked up her pace. No. No! Her sister wouldn’t do that. The Bible she loved to quote said suicide was a sin. Hope had a beautiful daughter to live for, to provide for, and to watch grow up. Hope would never abandon Chastity like that.
Would she?
The pressure building in her torso made it difficult to breath. She took a moment to self-assess. Her heart rate was well above normal, but she wasn’t having a heart attack. The pressure was anger. Anger at the police who hadn’t figured out the cause of the accident, because, damn it, every accident had a cause. Anger at God or whoever had orchestrated the tragic event. Anger at Hope.
Damn her for leaving Rachel to throw out the things she’d cherished as if they were nothing more than leftover wrappers from a fast-food meal.
Damn her for denying Rachel five years of watching Chastity grow up. Five years of nothing but emails and brief phone calls. Eighteen-hundred-plus nights of not being able to hold Chastity, to laugh with her, to dry her tears. To be her friend.
That hadn’t been their deal.
This current situation certainly wasn’t their deal.
Thunder rumbled overhead. She looked up, and a drop splattered on her forehead. Retribution for cursing the heavens? Then lightning split the sky, and the bottom fell out of the clouds. Rachel was drenched within seconds.
Serves you right for questioning His ways, her parents and sister would have said. She soldiered on, her rage at the police, her sister and the heavens burning in her chest. But how could she not be angry and resentful?
The wrong sister had died.
Rachel cursed Hope for putting her in a position where failure would be more than just a personal screwup. She was terrified she wasn’t up to the task of mothering Chastity. Her daughter deserved better. Hadn’t Hope said that countless times before?
Chastity needed a stable mother. And Rachel was anything but. She worked erratic hours and gallivanted around the globe to dangerous hot spots on her vacations. She volunteered in the armpit of her community on her days off. That was no life for a teenage girl.
Damn Hope. Damn her. For violating their bargain. For dying too soon. For leaving her daughter alone to work out problems with a bully teacher and a clueless aunt who didn’t know how to be a mother to the child she’d given birth to.
And how sad and unfair was that?
Another bolt of lightning hit nearby with an ear-popping bang. The smell of ozone filled the air. Rachel pressed closer to the building. The lingering heat in the bricks did nothing to warm the ice in her core.
“When I said I’d do anything to spend time with Chastity, this isn’t what I meant!” She hurled the angry words at the dark clouds above, then looked around quickly to see who’d overheard. But the streets were deserted.
The pain and pressure in her chest erupted in a pitiful sound. “I didn’t mean that!” she whispered.
* * *
LIGHTNING SPLIT THE HORIZON, followed by a truck-rattling rumble of thunder. “Crap.”
Matt turned on his wipers and headlights and took his foot off the gas. He couldn’t leave Rachel to walk home in a lightning storm. He might be an adult, but he wasn’t so old his mother wouldn’t tan his hide for putting someone at risk. And he wasn’t an asshole.
Making a U-turn, he retraced his path, but he didn’t see Rachel. He slowed to check stores to see if she’d sought shelter, but the stores were dark and locked up tight. Another jagged bolt split the air, followed by a loud boom. When he reached the thrift shop, he circled back, going slower this time to check cross streets. Three blocks down he spotted her pressed against a wall. She must have been hustling to have made it this far.
He pointed the truck in her direction. The minute the headlights hit her, she pushed off the building, ducked her head and started walking. He pulled up alongside her and lowered the passenger window. Cool, damp air rushed in. The temperature had dropped ten degrees in five minutes. Rachel was soaking wet with her arms hugging her torso and her hair a slick, wet rope down her back. She kept her eyes forward.
“Rachel, hop in.”
She glanced at him, then shook her head. “I’m already drenched. Can’t get any wetter. Thanks, but no thanks.”
She should know better. He shot into an empty parallel parking spot ahead of her, stomped the brakes and threw the truck into Park. “There’s lightning. Get in.”
“I’ll ruin your leather seats.”
“Would you rather be electrocuted? Damn it. Get in.” He hadn’t meant to yell. Or curse. But it worked. She inched his way. He grabbed the blanket he kept in the back and spread it over the seat.
She climbed in and slammed the door. Her lips were practically blue from the cold. He put up the window. When she reached for her seat belt the pointy tips of her nipples tenting her T-shirt lassoed his gaze. Heat ignited in his groin, and a firestorm of memories licked through him.
He still remembered the exact shade and taste of her nipples, the feel of those satiny nubs on his tongue and the smell of her when he’d buried his face between her breasts. Yet he couldn’t recall the same about any of the women he’d been with since.
Maybe he needed a cold shower. Instead, he turned up the heater. For Rachel’s sake. Though getting her warm wouldn’t hurt his sanity, either.
“Wrap up.” His voice was a barely audible growl. When she didn’t move fast enough he snarled, “Do I need to do it for you?”
She shot him a furious glare. Her eyes were red and swollen. Had she been crying? The idea hit him like a shoulder charge to the gut. Then denial immediately doused that reaction. Tough-as-nails Rachel crying? No way. But...he had to ask.
“You okay?”
“Peachy,” she snapped. The choked-out word confirmed his fears. He hated tears. He’d endured them enough back in Pam’s emotional days, and occasionally he had to deal with an overly sensitive student or player. The number one lesson he’d learned was talking about it only made it worse.
Let it go. Drive.
“Then why are you crying?” The words escaped before he could heed his own advice.
“I’m not.” She tried to hide it by facing the window.
“Liar.”
That earned him one of those if-looks-could-kill scowls. “It’s none of your business, even if I were.” She grabbed the door handle, but the kid-safe locks he kept engaged for hauling nieces and nephews stopped her. “Let me out.”
Another flash lit the sky a second before thunder shook them.
“Not in this weather. If you won’t think of yourself, think of Chastity.”
She hugged the blanket and averted her face. What could have upset her? Surely not donating Hope’s stuff? Rachel hadn’t shown one hint of grief to this point. But he couldn’t come up with anything else.
“Hope would be happy to know her things were going to someone who needed them.”
“I’m sure. She’d do anything for an-anyone.”
Had her voice broken or had that rumble of thunder distorted it? He caught a brief glimpse of pain-filled brown eyes, before she ducked her head and fussed with the blanket. “Take me hom
e, Matt. Please.”
The irregular rise and fall of her chest and that same ol’ hint of vulnerability that had hooked him years ago snagged his attention. He was glad he was wrong about her being a coldhearted bitch who’d snatch her grieving niece away from her support network, but keeping his distance would have been easier if he hadn’t been.
Giving her a moment to pull herself together, he tracked the torrents of rain turning his window into a blinding curtain even the wipers couldn’t hold back. Her subdued sniffles and the surreptitious swipes of her cheeks were getting to him. Keeping it all in was a hell of a lot harder than letting it all out—something he understood all too well.
He’d never once let his family or friends know how much losing Rachel or his football career had hurt. Both incidents had nearly emasculated him. Each made him question who he was and what his purpose was on this planet. But only he knew the turmoil he’d gone through.
Did Rachel have anyone to talk to back home? She had no one here. Except Pam. Maybe. But Pam and Hope had been close, so his sister wasn’t an impartial listener. She’d heard Hope talk about Rachel’s distance. They all had.
Another quiet sniff ripped right through him. He gripped the wheel tighter. He needed a distraction.
“I heard you called to check on each of the victims from the softball game,” he said.
She shrugged. “Protocol.”
He suspected it was more than that. “Thanks to your rapid response, they’ll all be fine.”
“G-good.”
Aw. Hell. Knowing he’d regret it but unable to resist, he yanked up the armrest between them and turned in his seat. “Talk to me, Rachel. Like you used to.”
“The weather sucks.”
The deflection was so similar to her prickliness years ago he almost smiled. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Can we just go?”
“It’s normal to miss her.”
Her ragged breath filled the otherwise silent cab. She needed comfort, and that’s all he was offering. Or that’s what he told himself when he hooked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her stiff body across the seat.
