"So Brian's finally up?"
"He was tired. He didn't get here until after midnight. He had an exam on Wednesday afternoon, so he couldn't get away earlier."
At that moment, the back door opened and Larry and Brian came in carrying a couple of bags, which they set on the counter. Brian, looking leaner and older somehow than when he'd left last August, saw Sarah and they hugged.
"So how's school going? I haven't talked to you in what seems like forever."
"It's going. You know how it is. How's the job?"
"It's good. I like it." She glanced over Brian's shoulder. "Hi, Daddy."
"Hey, sweetheart," Larry said, "it smells great in here."
As they put the groceries away, they chatted for a few minutes until Sarah finally told them there was someone she'd like them to meet.
"Yeah, Mom mentioned that you were seeing someone." Brian wiggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. "I'm glad. Is he a good guy?"
"I think so."
"Is it serious?"
Sarah couldn't help but notice that her mother stopped peeling the potatoes as she waited for the answer.
"I don't know yet," she said evasively. "Would you like to meet him?"
Brian shrugged. "Yeah, okay."
She reached out and touched his arm. "Don't worry, you'll like him." Brian nodded. "You coming, Daddy?"
"In a minute. Your mother wants me to find some of the extra serving bowls. They're in a box in the pantry somewhere."
Sarah and Brian left the kitchen and headed to the living room, though she didn't see Miles or Jonah. Her grandmother said that Miles had gone outside for a minute, but when she stepped out the front door, she still didn't see him.
"He must be around back...."
As they turned the corner of the house, Sarah finally spotted them. Jonah had found a small mound of dirt and was pushing the Matchbox cars along imaginary roads.
"So what's this guy do? Is he a teacher?"
"No, but that's how I met him. His son is in my class. Actually, he's a deputy sheriff. Hey, Miles!" she called out. "Jonah!" When they turned, Sarah nodded in her brother's direction. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."
When Jonah stood up from the dirt, Sarah saw that the knees of his pants were circled with brown. He and Miles met them halfway.
"This is my brother, Brian. And Brian, this is Miles and his son, Jonah."
Miles held out his hand. "How are you doing? Miles Ryan. Nice to meet you."
Brian held his hand out stiffly. "Nice to meet you, too."
"I hear you're in college."
Brian nodded. "Yes, sir."
Sarah laughed. "You don't have to be so formal. He's only a couple of years older than I am." Brian smiled weakly but didn't say anything, and Jonah looked up at him. Brian took a small step backward, as if uncertain how to address a young child.
"Hi," Jonah said.
"Hi," Brian answered.
"You're Miss Andrews's brother?"
Brian nodded.
"She's my teacher."
"I know. She told me."
"Oh . . ." Jonah looked suddenly bored and started fiddling with the cars in his hands. For a long moment, none of them said anything.
"I wasn't hiding from your family," Miles said a few minutes later. "Jonah asked if I'd come out here with him to see if I thought it would be okay to play here. I said it probably was--I hope that's okay."
"That's fine," Sarah said. "As long as he's having fun."
Larry had come around the corner as the four of them were talking and asked Brian if he could look in the garage for the serving dishes he'd been unable to find. Brian wandered off in that direction, then disappeared from view.
Larry, too, was quiet, though in a more speculative way than Brian. He seemed to regard Miles with a studying eye, as if watching his expressions would reveal more than the words Miles was saying as they covered the basics about each other. That feeling quickly passed as they found common interests, like the upcoming football game between the Dallas Cowboys and the Miami Dolphins. Within a few minutes, they were talking easily. Larry finally made his way back to the house, leaving Sarah alone with Miles and Jonah. Jonah went back to the mound of dirt.
"Your father's quite a character. I had the strangest feeling that when we first met, he was trying to figure out whether we'd slept together."
Sarah laughed. "He probably was. I am his baby girl, you know."
"Yeah, I know. How long's he been married to your mom?"
"Almost thirty-five years."
"That's a long time."
"Sometimes I think he should be sainted."
"Now, now...don't be so hard on your mom. I liked her, too."
"I think the feeling was mutual. For a while there, I thought she was going to offer to adopt you."
"Like you said, she just wants you to be happy."
"Say that to her, and I don't think she'll ever let you leave. She needs someone to take care of, now that Brian's off at college. Oh, listen--don't take Brian's shyness personally. He's really reserved when it comes to meeting people. Once he gets to know you, he'll come out of his shell."
Miles shook his head, dismissing her worries. "He was fine. Besides, he kind of reminds me of how I was at that age. Believe it or not, there are times when I don't know what to say, either."
Sarah's eyes went wide. "No...really? And here I thought you were the smoothest talker I'd ever met. Why, you practically swept me off my feet."
"Do you honestly believe that sarcasm is the right tone to take on a day like today? A day to be with family and offer thanks for all our blessings?"
"Of course."
He put his arms around her. "Well, in my defense, then, whatever I did seemed to work, didn't it?"
She sighed. "I suppose."
"You suppose?"
"What do you want? A medal?"
"For starters. A trophy would be nice, too."
She smiled. "What do you think you're holding right now?"
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. After the meal was cleared away, some of the family went to watch the game, others went to the kitchen to help store the mountains of left-overs. The afternoon was unhurried, and after stuffing himself with two pieces of pie, even Jonah seemed to find the atmosphere soothing. Larry and Miles chatted about New Bern, Larry quizzing Miles about local history. Sarah wandered from the kitchen, where her mother repeated (and repeated) the fact that Miles seemed like a wonderful young man, back to the living room to make sure that Miles and Jonah didn't feel as if she'd abandoned them. Brian, dutifully, spent most of his time in the kitchen, washing and drying the china that his mother had used for dinner.
A half hour before Miles had to head home to get dressed for work, Miles, Sarah, and Jonah went for a walk, just as Miles had promised. They headed toward the end of the block and into the wooded area that fronted the development. Jonah grabbed Sarah's hand and led her through the woods, laughing as he did so, and it was while watching them weave their way among the trees that it gradually dawned on Miles where all this might lead. While he knew he loved Sarah, he'd been touched that she had chosen to share her family with him. He liked the feeling of closeness, the holiday atmosphere, the casual way her relatives had seemed to respond to him, and he was certain that he didn't want this to be an isolated invitation.
It was then that he first thought of asking Sarah to marry him, and once the idea came to him, he found it nearly impossible to dismiss.
Up ahead, Sarah and Jonah were tossing stones in a small creek, one after the next. Jonah then hopped over it, and Sarah followed.
"C'mon!" she shouted. "We're exploring!"
"Yeah, Dad, hurry up!"
"I'm coming--you don't have to wait! I'll catch up."
He didn't rush to do so. Instead, he was lost in his thoughts as they continued to move farther and farther away, eventually vanishing behind a thick grove. Miles pushed his hands into his pockets.
Marriage.
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It was still early in their relationship, of course, and he had no intention of dropping to his knees here and now to pop the question. At the same time, he suddenly knew that there would come a moment when he would. She was right for him; of that he was certain. And she was wonderful with Jonah. Jonah seemed to love her, and that, too, was important, because if Jonah hadn't liked her, he wouldn't even be considering what a future with Sarah might bring.
And with that, something inside clicked, a key fitting neatly into a lock. Though he wasn't even consciously aware of it, the question of "if " had become a question of "when."
With this decision, he unconsciously felt himself relax. He couldn't see Sarah or Jonah as he crossed over the creek, but he followed the direction he'd last seen them going. A minute later he spotted them, and as he closed the distance between them, he realized he hadn't been this happy in years.
From Thanksgiving Day through mid-December, Miles and Sarah grew even closer, both as lovers and as friends, their relationship blossoming into something deeper and more permanent.
Miles also started dropping hints about their possible future together. Sarah wasn't blind to what he really meant by his words; in fact, she found herself adding to his comments. Little things-- when they were lying in bed, he might mention that he thought the walls should be repainted; Sarah would respond that a pale yellow might look cheery and they picked out the color together. Or Miles would mention that the garden needed some color and she'd say that she'd always loved camellias, and that's what she'd plant if she lived here. That weekend, Miles planted five of the bushes along the front of the house.
The file stayed in the closet, and for the first time in a long time, the present seemed more alive to Miles than the past. But what neither Sarah nor Miles could know was that although they were ready to put the past behind them, events would soon conspire to make that impossible.
Chapter 16
I had another sleepless night, and as much as I want to go back to bed, I realize I can't. Not until I tell you how it happened.
The accident didn't happen the way you probably imagine, or the way that Miles imagined. I hadn't, as he suspected, been drinking that night. Nor was I under the influence of any drugs. I was completely sober.
What happened with Missy that night was, quite simply, an accident.
I've gone over it a thousand times in my mind. In the fifteen years since it happened, I've felt a sense of deja vu at odd times--when carrying boxes to a moving van a couple of years ago, for instance--and the feeling still makes me stop whatever it is I'm doing, if only for a moment, and I find myself drawn back in time, to the day that Missy Ryan died.
I'd been working since early that morning, unloading boxes onto pallets for storage in a local warehouse, and I was supposed to be off at six. But a late shipment of plastic pipes came in right before closing time--my employer that day was the supplier for most of the shops in the Carolinas--and the owner asked if I wouldn't mind staying for an extra hour or so. I didn't mind; it meant overtime, time and a half, a great way to pick up some much needed extra cash. What I hadn't counted on was how full the trailer was, or that I'd pretty much end up doing most of the job alone.
There were supposed to be four guys working, but one had called in sick that day, another couldn't stay since his son was playing a baseball game and he didn't want to miss it. That left two of us to do the job, which still would have been okay. But a few minutes after the trailer pulled in, the other guy turned his ankle, and the next thing I knew, I was all by myself.
It was hot, too. The temperature outside was in the nineties, and inside the warehouse it was even hotter, over a hundred degrees and humid. I'd already put in eight hours, with another three hours to go. Trucks had been pulling up all day, and because I didn't work there regularly, most of my work was the backbreaking type. The other three guys rotated turns using the forklift, so they might get a break now and then. Not me. My job was to sort the boxes and then haul them from the back of the trailer to where the door slid up, loading everything on pallets so the forklift could move them into the warehouse. But by the end of the day, since I was the only one there, I had to do it all. By the time I finished up, I was bone-tired. I could barely move my arms, I had spasms in my back, and since I'd missed dinner, I was starving, too.
That's why I decided to go to Rhett's Barbecue instead of heading straight home. After a long, hard day, there's nothing better in the world than barbecue, and when I finally crawled into my car, I was thinking to myself that in just a few minutes, I'd finally be able to relax.
My car back then was a real beater, dented and banged up all over, a Pontiac Bonneville that had a dozen years on the road already. I'd got it used the summer before and paid only three hundred dollars for it. But even though it looked like hell, it ran good and I'd never had a problem with it. The engine started up whenever I turned the key, and I'd fixed the brakes myself when I first bought it, which was all it really needed at the time.
So I got in my car just as the sun was finally going down. At that time of night, the sun does funny things as it arcs downward in the west. The sky is changing color almost by the minute, shadows are spreading across the roads like long, ghostly fingers, and since there wasn't so much as a cloud in the sky, there were moments when the glare would slant sharply through the window and I'd have to squint so I could see where I was going.
Just ahead of me, another driver seemed to be having even more problems seeing than I was. Whoever it was was speeding up and slowing down, hitting the brakes every time the sunlight shifted, and more than once veering across the white line onto the other side of the road. I kept reacting, hitting my own brakes, but finally I got fed up and decided to put some distance between me and him. The road was too narrow for passing, so instead I slowed my car, hoping the person would pull farther away.
But whoever it was did just the opposite. He slowed down, too, and when the distance had closed between us again, I saw the brake lights blinking on and off like Christmas lights, then suddenly staying red. I hit my own brakes hard, my tires squealing as my car jerked to a stop. I doubt if I missed the car in front of me by more than a foot.
That's the moment, I think, when fate intervened. Sometimes, I wish I'd hit the car, since I would have had to stop and Missy Ryan would have made it home. But because I missed--and because I'd had enough of the driver in front of me--I took the next right, onto Camellia Road, even though it added a little extra time, time I now wish I could have back. The road swung through an older part of town, where oaks were full and lush, and the sun was dipping low enough that the glare was finally gone. A few minutes later, the sky started darkening more quickly and I turned on my headlights.
The road veered left and right, and soon the houses began to spread out. The yards were bigger, and fewer people seemed to be about. After a couple of minutes, I made another turn, this time onto Madame Moore's Lane. I knew this road well and comforted myself with the knowledge that in a couple of miles, I'd find myself at Rhett's.
I remember turning the radio on and fiddling with the dial, but I didn't really take my eyes off the road. Then I turned it off. My mind, I promise you, was on the drive.
The road was narrow and winding, but like I said, I knew this road like the back of my hand. I automatically applied the car's brakes as I entered a bend in the road. That was when I saw her, and I'm pretty sure I slowed even more. I don't know for sure, though, since everything that happened next went so fast that I couldn't swear to anything.
I was coming up behind her, the gap between us closing. She was off to the side, on the grass shoulder. I remember she was wearing a white shirt and blue shorts and not going real fast, kind of gliding along in a relaxed sort of way.
In this neighborhood, the houses sat on half an acre, and no one was outside. She knew I was coming up behind her--I saw her glance quickly to the side, maybe enough to catch sight of me from the corner of her eye, and she moved another half step farth
er from the road. Both my hands were on the wheel. I was paying attention to everything I should have and thought I was being careful. And so was she.
Neither of us, however, saw the dog.
Almost as if lying in wait for her, it charged out from a gap in a hedge when she was no more than twenty feet from my car. A big black dog, and even though I was in my car, I could hear its vicious snarl as it charged right at her. It must have caught her off-guard because she suddenly reared back, away from the dog, and took one step too many into the road.
My car, all three thousand pounds of it, smashed into her in that instant.
Chapter 17
Sims Addison, at forty, looked something like a rat: a sharp nose, a forehead that sloped backward, and a chin that seemed to have stopped growing before the rest of his body did. He kept his hair slicked back over his head, with the help of a wide-toothed comb he always carried with him.
Sims was also an alcoholic.
He wasn't, however, the kind of alcoholic who drank every night. Sims was the kind of alcoholic whose hands shook in the morning prior to taking his first drink of the day, which he usually finished long before most people headed for work. Although he was partial to bourbon, he seldom had enough money for anything other than the cheapest wines, which he drank by the gallon. Where he got his money he didn't like to say, but then, aside from booze and the rent, he didn't need much.
If Sims had any redeeming feature, it was that he had the knack of making himself invisible and, as a result, had a way of learning things about people. When he drank, he was neither loud nor obnoxious, but his normal expression--eyes half-closed, mouth slack--gave him the appearance of someone who was far drunker than he usually was. Because of that, people said things in his presence.
Things they should have kept to themselves.
Sims earned the little money he did by calling in tips to the police.
Not all of them, though. Only the ones where he could stay anonymous and still get the money. Only the ones where the police would keep his secret, where he wouldn't have to testify.
Criminals, he knew, had a way of keeping grudges, and he wasn't stupid enough to believe that if they knew who'd turned them in, they'd just roll over and forget it.