"My pleasure. There's one thing that I'm going to need, though, so I can do this right. Think of it as my fee."
"What's that?"
"A fan--and make it a good one." She nodded toward the school. "It's like an oven in there."
"You got yourself a deal."
Twenty minutes later, after she and Miles had said good-bye, Sarah was back in the classroom. As she was collecting her things, she found herself thinking about Jonah and how best to help him. It was a good thing that she'd made the offer, she told herself. It would keep her more attuned to his abilities in class, and she'd be able to better guide Miles when he was working with his son. True, it was a little extra work, but it was the best thing for Jonah, even if she hadn't planned on it. And she hadn't--not until she'd said the words.
She was still trying to figure out why she'd done that.
Despite herself, she was also thinking about Miles. He wasn't what she'd expected, that's for sure. When Brenda had told her that he was a sheriff, she'd immediately pictured a caricature of southern law enforcement: overweight, pants hanging too low, small mirrored sunglasses, a mouth full of chewing tobacco. She'd imagined him swaggering into her classroom, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and drawling, Now, just what did you want to talk to me about, little lady? But Miles was none of these things.
He was attractive, too. Not as Michael had been--dark and glamorous, everything always perfectly in place--but appealing in a natural, more rugged way. His face had a roughness to it, as if he'd spent many hours in the sun as a boy. But contrary to what she'd said, he didn't look forty, and that had surprised her.
It shouldn't have. After all, Jonah was only seven, and she knew Missy Ryan had died young. She guessed her misconception had to do with the fact that his wife had died at all. She couldn't imagine that happening to someone her age. It wasn't right; it seemed out of sync with the natural order of the world.
Sarah was still musing over this as she glanced around the room one last time, making sure she had everything she needed. She removed her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, slipped it over her shoulder, put everything else under her other arm, and then turned off the lights on her way out.
As she walked to her car, she felt a pang of disappointment when she saw that Miles had already left. Chiding herself for her thoughts, she reminded herself that a widower like Miles would hardly be entertaining similar thoughts about his young son's schoolteacher.
Sarah Andrews had no idea how wrong she was.
Chapter 4
By the dim light on my desk, the newspaper clippings look older than they are. Though yellowed and wrinkled, they seem strangely heavy, as if burdened with the weight of my life back then.
There are some simple truths in life, and this is one of them: Whenever someone dies young and tragically, there's always interest in the story, especially in a small town, where everyone seems to know each other.
When Missy Ryan died, it was front-page news, and gasps were heard in kitchens throughout New Bern when newspapers were opened the following morning. There was a major article and three photographs: one of the accident scene and two others that showed Missy as the beautiful woman she'd been. There were two more lengthy articles in the days that followed as more information was released, and in the beginning, everyone was confident that the case would have a resolution.
A month or so after the event, another article appeared on the front page, stating that a reward had been offered by the town council for any information on the case; and with that, confidence began to fade. And as is typical of any news event, so did the interest. People around town stopped discussing it as frequently, Missy's name came up less and less often. In time, another article appeared, this one on the third page, repeating what had been stated in the first few articles and again asking anyone in the community with information to come forward. After that, there wasn't anything at all.
The articles had always followed the same pattern, outlining what was known for sure and laying out the facts in a simple and straightforward way: On a warm summer evening in 1986, Missy Ryan-- high school sweetheart of a local sheriff and mother of one son--went out for a jog, just as it was getting dark. Two people had seen her running along Madame Moore's Lane a few minutes after she started; each of them had been interviewed later by the highway patrol. The rest of the articles concerned the events of that night. What none of them mentioned, however, was how Miles had spent the last few hours before he finally learned what happened.
Those hours, I'm sure, were the ones that Miles would always remember, since they were the last hours of normalcy he would know. Miles blew off the driveway and the walk, just as Missy had asked, then went inside. He picked up around the kitchen, spent some time with Jonah, and finally put him to bed. Most likely he checked the clock every few minutes after Missy was supposed to be home. At first, he might have suspected that Missy had stopped to visit with someone she'd seen on her job, something she sometimes did, and he probably chided himself for imagining the worst.
The minutes turned into an hour, then became two, and Missy still hadn't returned. By then, Miles was worried enough to place a call to Charlie. He asked him to check out the usual route Missy jogged, since Jonah was already asleep and he didn't want to leave him alone unless he had to. Charlie said he'd be glad to do it.
An hour later--during which Miles seemed to be getting the runaround from everyone he called for updates--Charlie was at the door. He'd brought his wife, Brenda, so she could watch Jonah, and she was standing behind him, her eyes red.
"You'd better come," Charlie said softly. "There's been an accident."
From the expression on his face, I'm sure that Miles knew exactly what Charlie was trying to tell him. The rest of the night was a terrible blur.
What neither Miles nor Charlie knew then, and what the investigation would later reveal, was that there were no witnesses to the hit-and-run that had taken Missy's life. Nor would anyone come forward with a confession. Over the next month, the highway patrol interviewed everyone in the area; they searched for any evidence that might provide a lead, poking through bushes, evaluating the evidence at the scene, visiting local bars and restaurants, asking if any customers had seemed intoxicated and had left around that time. In the end, the case file was thick and heavy, chronicling everything they had learned-- which in the end was essentially nothing more than what Miles knew the moment he'd pushed open the door and seen Charlie standing on the porch.
Miles Ryan had become a widower at the age of thirty.
Chapter 5
In the car, the memories of the day Missy died came back to Miles in bits and pieces, just as they had earlier when he'd driven along Madame Moore's Lane before his lunch with Charlie. Now, though, instead of running endlessly in the same loop, from his day spent fishing to the argument with Missy to all that followed, they were displaced by his thoughts of Jonah, and Sarah Andrews.
With his mind occupied, he didn't know how long they had driven in silence, but it was long enough to finally make Jonah nervous. As Jonah waited for his father to speak, his mind began focusing on the possible punishments his father might inflict, each of them worse than the last. He kept zipping and unzipping his backpack until Miles finally reached over and rested his hand on top of his son's to stop him. Still, his father said nothing, and after finally gathering his courage, Jonah looked toward Miles with wide eyes that were nearly brimming with tears.
"Am I in trouble, Dad?"
"No."
"You talked to Miss Andrews for a long time."
"We had a lot to talk about."
Jonah swallowed. "Did you talk about school?"
Miles nodded and Jonah looked toward his backpack again, feeling sick to his stomach and wishing he could keep his hands occupied again. "I'm in big trouble," he mumbled.
A few minutes later, sitting on a bench outside the Dairy Queen, Jonah was finishing an ice-cream cone, his father's arm around him. They'd been
talking for ten minutes, and at least as far as Jonah was concerned, it wasn't half as bad as he'd thought it would be. His father hadn't yelled, he hadn't threatened him, and best of all, he hadn't been grounded. Instead, Miles had simply asked Jonah about his previous teachers and what they had-- and hadn't--made him do; Jonah explained honestly that once he'd fallen behind, he was too embarrassed to ask for help. They'd talked about the things Jonah was having trouble with--as Sarah had said, it was practically everything--and Jonah promised that he'd do his best from now on. Miles, too, said that he'd help Jonah and that if everything went well, he'd be caught up in no time. All in all, Jonah considered himself lucky.
What he didn't realize was that his father wasn't finished yet.
"But because you're so far behind," Miles went on calmly, "you're going to have to stay after school a few days a week, so Miss Andrews can help you out."
It took a moment for the words to register, and then Jonah looked up at his father.
"After school?"
Miles nodded. "She said you'd catch up faster that way."
"I thought you said that you were going to help me."
"I am, but I can't do it every day. I have to work, so Miss Andrews said she'd help, too."
"But after school?" he asked again, a note of pleading in his voice.
"Three days a week."
"But...Dad..." He tossed the rest of the ice-cream cone into the garbage. "I don't want to stay after school."
"I didn't ask if you wanted to. And besides, you could have told me you were having trouble before. If you'd done that, you might have been able to avoid something like this."
Jonah furrowed his brow. "But, Dad..."
"Listen, I know there's a million things you'd rather do, but you're gonna do this for a while. You don't have a choice, and just think, it could be worse."
"Howww?" he asked, sort of singing the last syllable, the way he always did when he didn't want to believe what Miles was telling him.
"Well, she could have wanted to work with you on the weekends, too. If that had happened, you wouldn't have been able to play soccer."
Jonah leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands. "All right," he finally said with a sigh, looking glum. "I'll do it."
Miles smiled, thinking, You didn't have a choice.
"I appreciate that, champ."
Later that night, Miles was leaning over Jonah's bed, pulling up the covers. Jonah's eyes were heavy, and Miles ran his hand through his son's hair before kissing his cheek.
"It's late. Get some sleep."
He looked so small in his bed, so content. Miles made sure that Jonah's night-light was on, then reached for the lamp by the bed. Jonah forced his eyes open, though one look said they wouldn't stay that way for long.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for not being too mad at me today."
Miles smiled. "You're welcome."
"And Dad?"
"Yeah?"
Jonah reached up to wipe his nose. Next to his pillow was a teddy bear Missy had given him when he'd turned three. He still slept with it every night.
"I'm glad Miss Andrews wants to help me."
"You are?" he asked, surprised.
"She's nice."
Miles turned out the light. "I thought so, too. Now get some sleep, okay?"
"Okay. And Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
Miles felt a tightness in his throat. "I love you, too, Jonah."
Hours later, just before four A.M., Jonah's nightmares returned.
Like the wail of someone plunging off a cliff, Jonah's screaming immediately jolted Miles awake. He staggered half-blindly from his bedroom, nearly tripping over a toy in the process, and was still trying to focus when he scooped the still-sleeping boy into his arms. He began whispering to him as he carried him to the back porch. It was, he'd learned, the only thing that would ever calm him down. Within moments the sobbing dropped to a whimper, and Miles was thankful not only for the fact that his home sat on an acre of land, but that his nearest neighbor--Mrs. Knowlson--was hard of hearing.
In the hazy humid air, Miles rocked Jonah back and forth, continuing to whisper in his ear. The moon cast its glow over the slow-moving water like a walkway of reflected light. With low-slung oak trees and the whitewashed trunks of cypress trees lining the banks, the view was soothing, ageless in beauty. The draping veils of Spanish moss only added to the feeling that this part of the world hadn't changed in the last thousand years.
By the time Jonah's breathing had fallen into deep, regular patterns again, it was nearly five A.M. and Miles knew he wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Instead, after putting Jonah back in bed, he went in the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Sitting at the table, he rubbed his eyes and his face, getting the blood flowing again, then looked up. Outside the window, the sky was beginning to glow silver on the horizon and splinters of daybreak filtered through the trees.
Miles found himself thinking about Sarah Andrews once more.
He was attracted to her, that much was certain. He hadn't reacted that strongly to a woman in what seemed like forever. He'd been attracted to Missy, of course, but that was fifteen years ago. A lifetime ago. And it wasn't that he wasn't attracted to Missy during the last few years of their marriage, because he was. It's just that the attraction seemed different, somehow. The initial infatuation he'd felt when meeting Missy the first time--the desperate adolescent desire to learn everything he could about her--had been replaced with something deeper and more mature over the years. With Missy, there weren't any surprises. He knew how she looked just after getting out of bed in the mornings, he'd seen the exhaustion etched in every feature after giving birth to Jonah. He knew her--her feelings, her fears, the things she liked and didn't. But this attraction for Sarah felt... new, and it made him feel new as well, as if anything were possible. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed that feeling.
But where would it go from here? That was the part he still wasn't sure about. He couldn't predict what, if anything, would happen with Sarah. He didn't know anything about her; in the end, they might not be compatible at all. There were a thousand things that could doom a relationship, and he wasn't blind to them.
Still, he'd been attracted to her....
Miles shook his head, forcing the thought away. No reason to dwell on it, except for the reason that the attraction had once again reminded him that he wanted to start over. He wanted to find someone again; he didn't want to live the rest of his life alone. Some people could do that, he knew. There were people here in town who'd lost their spouse and never remarried, but he wasn't wired that way and never had been. He'd never felt as if he'd been missing out on something when he'd been married. He didn't look at his single friends and wish that he could lead their life--dating, playing the field, falling in and out of love as the seasons changed. That just wasn't him. He loved being a husband, he loved being a father, he loved the stability that had come with all that, and he wanted to have that again.
But I probably won't. . . .
Miles sighed and looked out the window again. More light in the lower sky, still black above. He rose from the table, went down the hall to peek in on Jonah--still asleep--then pushed open the door to his own bedroom. In the shadows, he could see the pictures he'd had framed, sitting on top of his chest of drawers and on the bedstand. Though he couldn't make out the features, he didn't need to see them clearly to know what they were: Missy sitting on the back porch, holding a bouquet of wildflowers; Missy and Jonah, their faces close to the lens, grinning broadly; Missy and Miles walking down the aisle...
Miles entered and sat on the bed. Next to the photo was the manila file filled with information he'd compiled himself, on his own time. Because sheriffs didn't have jurisdiction over traffic accidents--nor would he have been allowed to investigate, even if the sheriffs had--he'd followed in the footsteps of the highway patrol, interviewing the same people, asking the same questions
, and sifting through the same information. Knowing what he'd been through, no one had refused to cooperate, but in the end he'd learned no more than the official investigators. As it was, the file sat on the bedstand, as if daring Miles to find out who'd been driving the car that night.
But that didn't seem likely, not anymore, no matter how much Miles wanted to punish the person who'd ruined his life. And let there be no mistake: That was exactly what he wanted to do. He wanted to make the person pay dearly for what he'd done; it was his duty both as a husband and as someone sworn to uphold the law. An eye for an eye--wasn't that what the Bible said?
Now, as with most mornings, Miles stared at the file without bothering to open it and found himself imagining the person who'd done it, running through the same scenarios he did every time, and always beginning with the same question.
If it was simply an accident, why run?
The only reason he could come up with was that the person was drunk, someone coming home from a party, or someone who made a habit of drinking too much every weekend. A man, probably, in his thirties or forties. Though there was no evidence to support that, that's whom he always pictured. In his mind's eye, Miles could see him swerving from side to side as he made his way down the road, going too fast and jerking the wheel, his mind processing everything in slow motion. Maybe he was reaching for another beer, one sandwiched between his legs, just as he caught a glimpse of Missy at the last second. Or maybe he didn't see her at all. Maybe he just heard the thud and felt the car shudder with the impact. Even then, the driver didn't panic. There weren't any skid marks on the road, even though the driver had stopped the car to see what he had done. The evidence--information that had never appeared in any of the articles--showed that much.
No matter.
No one else had seen anything. There were no other cars on the road, no porch lights flicked on, no one had been outside walking the dog or turning off the sprinklers. Even in his intoxicated state, the driver had known that Missy was dead and that he'd be facing a manslaughter charge at the least, maybe second-degree murder if he'd had prior offenses. Criminal charges. Prison time. Life behind bars. These and even more frightening thoughts must have raced through his head, urging him to get out of there before anyone saw him. And he had, without ever bothering to consider the grief he'd left in his wake.