Deadline (11 page)

Amelia went to the window above the sink and looked out. “His house is completely dark. He’s probably sleeping.”

Hesitantly, Stef said, “We have another neighbor.”

Amelia looked toward Dawson’s house. “His piece-of-crap car isn’t there,” she muttered. With unreasonable annoyance, she asked, “Where could he be on a night like tonight?”

Stef offered to start gathering up candles.

She had to take their only remaining working flashlight with her, leaving Amelia and the boys huddled around the kitchen table in the dark. She suggested they see how many rounds of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” they could sing before Stef returned, but their voices faltered each time the kitchen was filled with a silvery flash of lightning and a cannon blast of thunder.

After several minutes, Stef returned to the kitchen with four tapers and three votives. Putting a match to a vanilla-scented candle, she said cheerfully, “It’ll start to smell good in here.”

With the candle lit, Amelia switched off the flashlight. Grant whimpered. “Turn it back on.”

“We need to save the batteries, sweetheart.”

He lay his cheek against her chest.

Hunter said, “He’s such a baby.”

“Hunter.”

“I’m not a baby!”

Amelia ran her hand over his hair. “Well, it’s bedtime anyway. After you close your eyes and go to sleep, you won’t even realize it’s dark. And when you wake up—”

“No!” he wailed. “I don’t want to go to bed without a light on.”

Amelia had hoped in vain for a miracle, but apparently she wasn’t going to get one. “I have to go to the village for batteries.”

But when she tried to get up, Grant began to cry and cling to her. “No, Mommy! Don’t leave.”

“It only makes sense that I go,” Stef said.

“It makes no sense at all. I’ve been driving on this island in storms for years. It can be tricky if you don’t know the road well. Sometimes it floods.”

“I’ve driven it enough times to become familiar. Besides, I don’t think our two boys here would let you out of their sight.” Amelia acknowledged the rationality of Stef’s going. Reluctantly she agreed.

Stef got her purse and Amelia’s car keys.

“While you’re there, get some nonperishable food items, too. We may not have a fridge and stove for a while. If lines are down, it takes a while to get repairmen out here. They restore service on the mainland first.”

“If you think of anything else, call me.” Then, checking her cell phone, Stef said. “If you can. Right now, I’m not getting a signal.”

A half hour passed, during which Amelia told every silly “Knock-Knock” joke she knew, and which the boys had already heard dozens of times. She told them the story of “The Three Little Pigs” and then devised a contest to see who could huff and puff the best. Neither of the boys got into the game.

After another thirty minutes, she called Stef’s phone. It went straight to voice mail.

The storm continued to rage without any sign of letting up. The boys grew increasingly anxious, in part because they sensed her own mounting nervousness. She was near her wit’s end by the time she heard the utility-room door burst open, bringing a gust of wind in with it.

“Thank God,” she breathed. “Stef?”

But it wasn’t her nanny who stepped into the kitchen, dripping water, his hair plastered to his head.

“Dawson!”

Her boys, who’d been competing for space on her lap, abandoned her and ran to him, wrapping their arms around his legs and impeding his progress. He looked at Amelia through the wavering candlelight. “I was on my way home and noticed that your house is dark.”

Hunter tugged on the hem of his shirt to get his attention. “The lights went out, and Grant was afraid, but I wasn’t. I got sand in my eye, but it’s out now. I painted you a battleship.”

Grant, not to be outdone, informed him that candles make things look wavy. He added a hand gesture to demonstrate.

Hunter spoke over his brother. “Mom said if we’d go to bed and close our eyes, we wouldn’t know it was dark, but I think we would.”

“And she told us today that if we didn’t stop whining, she was going to pull her hair out, but she didn’t.”

Dawson smiled. “Well, that’s good. She’s got such pretty hair.” He brought his gaze back to Amelia, who had stood up to face him, rebuking herself for being relieved and glad to see him.

“Thank you for stopping. We’re okay. Just waiting on Stef to get back from the village. She went for supplies.”

“I just came from there. I doubt she’ll get back anytime soon, if at all. The power is off everywhere. Only the store and Mickey’s have generators. People are hunkering down in one or the other. I hope she does. The road is virtually impassable.”

“I’ve tried calling her, but—”

“No cell service.”

“You said the road was impassable?”

“That tidal pool halfway between here and—”

“It usually overflows during heavy rains.”

“It has. All the way to the road.”

“Then how’d you get here?”

He hesitated before saying, “Determination.”

The gravelly tone behind the word made her tummy flutter. “I appreciate your checking on us. We’re fine, but I could use some batteries if you have extras.”

“Better than that, my house has a generator. It’s listed as an amenity on the fact sheet I picked up at the rental office along with the key. If the power goes off, it comes on automatically, keeps the fridge, stove, and a few circuits working.”

He glanced at the flickering candle on the table as well as at her scant reserves. “Those aren’t going to last long. It’s unlikely Stef will get back tonight, and it would be dangerous for her even to attempt it.”

Amelia shifted from one foot to the other. “What are you saying?”

“I think you know.”

She did know, and she shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because. Because I wouldn’t think of putting you to the trouble.”

“No trouble. It’s a big house with lots of bedrooms, already made up for occupancy.”

They looked at each other for several moments. Finally she said, “You know that’s not the reason.”

“Yeah. I know the reason. Last night. Just before I left.”

She bobbed her head once.

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay, maybe you do. But you’ve got bigger worries than me, and I don’t have to spell them out. Do you really want to be here alone in a dark house?”

“Mom, what are y’all talking about?”

She looked down at her eldest, who, she kept forgetting, was perceptive beyond his years. He sensed the tension between her and Dawson, but was unable to understand it. Seeing his young brow wrinkled with anxiety subverted Amelia’s resolve.

When she looked again at Dawson, he extended his arms away from his sides, palms toward her. It was a subtle gesture, but meaningful, communicating that he didn’t pose a threat.

“Dawson has asked us to spend the night at his house because he has lights.”

Her last few words went unheard because of their whoops of glee. “Can we, Mom?”

“Can we go now?”

“Can I take some of my cars?”

“Let’s save the cars for another time,” Dawson told Grant. “I suggest you come right now, as you are, before the storm gets any worse.”

“Can we, Mom?”

“I suppose that’s—” Needing to hear no more, they left the kitchen at a run and pounded through the utility room. “Don’t open the door till I get there!” She scribbled a note to Stef on a paper napkin, telling her where they were, and anchored it to the table with the salt shaker, then blew out the single candle, pitching the room into total darkness.

“Here, take my hand.”

She was entrusting much more than her hand to the man who reached for her.

A
lthough the boys were clamoring to leave, Amelia took time to grab each of them a change of clothing from the stacks of folded laundry on the utility-room table. Dawson had parked as close as possible to the back door, but it would still be impossible to reach his car without getting soaked.

He didn’t worry about himself. He couldn’t possibly get any wetter than he already was. They made a mad dash for the car. The boys were shrieking with laughter and excitement by the time they clambered into the backseat.

“Suddenly, they’re not as cranky and afraid as before,” she remarked when Dawson slid behind the wheel.

“It’s an adventure now.”

“I told them earlier we were having an adventure. They didn’t buy it.”

“Sitting in the dark is a different kind of adventure from running through the rain.”

“True. But the real difference is you.”

The statement gave him pause, but now wasn’t the time to think about it. He started the car; the tires spun before gaining traction. As they pulled away, she remarked on Bernie’s dark house.

“Do you mind if we stop and check on him?”

“Not at all. In fact, he should come with us.”

He drove the short distance, got out of the car, and ran up to Bernie’s back door, finding a sliver of shelter beneath the eaves. He knocked three times before Bernie appeared wearing a baggy pair of undershorts and a white T-shirt, with slippers and black socks on his feet. He was rubbing his left eye. His white hair was sticking out at odd angles.

Since they’d only been introduced once, the older man seemed astonished to see him, but he remembered his name. “Mr. Scott?”

“Sorry if I got you out of bed.”

“I was reading. Just like Boy Scout camp.” He held up the flashlight in his hand. “What are you doing out in this?”

“Amelia’s with me. She and the boys are staying at my house for the rest of the night.” He gestured toward the car.

Bernie regarded him with surprise, then leaned around him and peered at the car. He waved at it, although the passengers were blurs behind the foggy, rain-streaked windows. “Stef, too?”

“She’s stuck in town.”

“Oh.”

Before the old man drew the wrong conclusion, Dawson explained. “The boys were afraid. The house I’m renting has a generator. Lights.”

“Ah, of course.”

“We think you should spend the night there, too.”

“No, no, I’m fine here.”

“You’d be more comfortable.”

“I’m snug as a bug, and I’ve got plenty of backup batteries.”

A bolt of lightning cracked nearby. Dawson instinctively ducked. When he recovered, he noticed Bernie regarding him curiously. Embarrassed by his conditioned reaction to the boom, he said, “That one was close.”

“You’d better get Amelia and the kids tucked inside.”

“I can’t talk you into joining the party? There are more than enough bedrooms, and it could be a long night.”

“Thank you. I appreciate the invitation, but I’m fine.”

“At least agree to come over for breakfast.”

Bernie smiled. “If you insist.”

Dawson bade him good night and plunged back into the torrent. He couldn’t help but sling rain onto Amelia as he got into the car, but she seemed not to notice.

“Is he all right?”

“I think I woke him up. He seemed to be okay. He didn’t want to relocate.”

“You explained why we were doing this?”

He placed his hand over his heart. “I made a point of preserving your reputation.”

“Thank you for checking on him.”

“No problem.” The road was a morass, but they made it to the back door of his house without mishap. “Hold on, boys, let me help you up the steps. They could be slick.”

He got out and opened the back door on the driver’s side. Taking a boy by each hand, he walked them quickly but cautiously up the three wooden steps, unlocked the back door, then ushered them inside. When he flipped the switch, the overhead light came on. He’d been keeping his fingers crossed that the generator did, in fact, take over during a power loss.

“Wow!” Hunter exclaimed. “Look at that ship model.” It was displayed on the long table that divided the kitchen from the living area.

“First, take off your shoes and leave them here by the back door so you don’t track up the floor. Then you can go look at the ship. But don’t touch. It doesn’t belong to me.”

He went back out, intending to assist Amelia, but she’d already alighted. Protecting the armload of clothes she was carrying, she was picking her way around the deepest puddles. He went down the steps and took her elbow. “I was coming back for you. You should have waited.”

“I’m okay.”

As soon as she’d cleared the threshold of the back door, she pulled her arm free of his grasp. “I haven’t been in this house since the owners renovated it. It’s—”

He stepped directly in front of her, blocking her view. “Are you going to flinch every time I come near you?”

“I didn’t flinch.”

“Hell you didn’t.”

Her chin went up a fraction, but the trace of defiance was short-lived, and she dropped her gaze to somewhere in the vicinity of the second button of his shirt. “You’re smart enough to understand how awkward this is for me.”

“Because of the near kiss.”

He didn’t phrase it as a question, and she offered no reply, but only continued to stare straight ahead until the silence between them became strained. Finally she looked into his face again.

“Your virtue is safe with me,” he said. “Okay?”

She nodded.

“Okay?” he repeated.

Even though she nodded a second time, he felt that she wasn’t entirely convinced. He certainly wasn’t.

Hunter and Grant missed the awkward exchange because, as with everything having to do with Dawson, they were fascinated by “his” house.

It was tastefully furnished and had amenities to recommend it, but it lacked the warmth and personality of hers, which had been purchased strictly for her family’s use and was never rented out. Over the years it had accumulated personal keepsakes, family photographs, the marks and scars of living that made a house a home.

However, her sons didn’t seem to miss the hominess. They were enthralled, particularly by the matching set of bunk beds in the upstairs bedroom to which Dawson led them. “Each of you can have a top bunk.”

“Be careful on those ladders,” Amelia cautioned as they started up the rungs.

Grant said, “I wish this was our room all the time.”

Hunter declared that he wished they could live there forever.

Amelia smiled. “Well, before you get the bedcovers wet, come back down and change.”

They climbed down and went to inspect the adjoining bathroom. “There’s a room right across the hall for you,” Dawson said.

“Thanks, but I’ll sleep on one of the lower bunks.”

He shot the beds a dubious glance. “You sure? The other room—”

“No sense in messing up two.”

Although he looked like he wanted to argue further, he didn’t. “Fine. I’m going to get dry. Make yourself comfortable.”

A half hour later and now much more comfortable, she descended the open staircase which was dimly illuminated by night-lights that had been placed on every third tread. She’d towel-dried her hair and changed into the clothes she’d brought with her. In her haste, and in the dark of her utility room, she’d grabbed the first articles her hands had landed on, which turned out to be a pair of cotton pajama bottoms and a fleece hoodie. They were mismatched, but she didn’t see what possible difference it made.

When she reached the bottom step, Dawson asked, “Everything all right?”

Her eyes searched the vast great room and spotted him in the semidarkness, sprawled in an easy chair. The lamp at his elbow cast only a faint glow.

“Sorry if I startled you,” he said. “This is the only socket working in this room, and the overhead light is out.”

The overhead light in the kitchen had been turned off. Had it been left on, it would have shed light into the living area. She chose not to remark on that. Nor did she comment on the disappearance of the liquor and pill bottles that had been conspicuously on the kitchen island when they arrived.

“There wasn’t a glass in the bathroom,” she said. “In case the boys wake up in the night and want a drink of water, I came down to get one.”

“Come sit. Before hiding the incriminating evidence of my vices, I poured you a whiskey.”

His right hand was dangling over the arm of the chair. In it, he loosely held a tumbler. Another one sat on the end table beneath the lamp. The amber contents reflected the light.

When she hesitated, he said, “Bourbon is all I have. Is that okay?”

“My father was a southern gentleman. What do you think?”

He smiled. “I think he probably spiked your baby bottle with it.” He tilted his head toward the chair next to his. “Come on. You looked pretty wound up when I got to your house. This will relax you and help you sleep.”

Said the spider to the fly
, she thought.

But she joined him anyway. The chair was soft, cushy, and enveloping. Pulling her feet up, she tucked them against her hip.

Noticing her striped socks, he said, “Fetching.”

“I’m afraid the whole outfit leaves much to be desired.”

He looked her over and seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but changed his mind. Instead, he picked up the glass of whiskey on the table and extended it to her. “Drink up.”

She took a sip and sighed as the liquor spread a pleasant warmth through her middle. Letting her head fall back against the cushion, she sighed, “Lord, what a day.”

“Mine didn’t have many highlights, either.”

“What happened?”

“Work-related hassle.” He made an offhanded gesture and took a sip of his drink.

“You went to the village?”

“I didn’t want to be caught in short supply.”

“Of batteries?”

“Of booze.” He raised his glass in a mock toast. “I was almost out.”

“Thanks for sharing.”

“You’re welcome.”

He smelled of soap. His hair was dry, brushed back away from his face, making the sun-lightened strands distinguishable from the darker ones beneath. He’d put on a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt, which, like the one from the beach, was practically threadbare. But at least this one had sleeves that partially covered the bite-worthy biceps. The lamplight cast the features of his face into harsh relief, emphasizing the sharp angles, the spikiness of his eyelashes. It also glinted off the tawny hair on his legs.

Her teeth clinked against her glass when she took a hasty sip.

He said, “May I ask you a question? A harmless one.”

“Chocolate or vanilla? It’s a tie. My most favorite is peach.”

He grinned. “Not quite that harmless.”

She weighed the pros and cons of letting him pry further into her life, and specifically into her life with Jeremy, and finally consented to at least hear the question. “Then I’ll decide if I want to answer it or not.”

He waited a second or two, then asked if she had a picture of Jeremy’s parents.

“His parents? No.”

“If you did, would you show it to me?”

“The point is moot, I don’t have one.”

“Did you ever see one?”

“No, because, remember, everything was destroyed in the house fire.”

“Did he ever take you to Ohio to tour his hometown, show you the site of the home that burned, visit the cemetery where his parents were buried?”

“They were cremated. He didn’t keep their remains. He wasn’t sentimental or nostalgic. He told me that, when he left Ohio, he left for good and never had a desire to return, not even to high-school class reunions.”

“Did he say why?”

“The memories were too sad. He dealt with them by severing any and all ties.”

“He didn’t have one single shred of something that linked him to his parents? Nothing to indicate what they and his childhood had been like?”

“Why are you fixated on this?”

“I’m interested.”

“But why? It’s ancient history. And what does his childhood have to do with anything else?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. His parents could have impacted him in ways that even you’re unaware of.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course they did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because parents do.”

“Did yours?”

“Yes.” He shot the rest of his whiskey and set the tumbler on the table. “Just like you’ll influence Hunter and Grant, like your dad influenced you. From something as simple as what goes into a good meat loaf to the not-so-simple. Religion. Culture. How you should vote. Every damn thing you think or believe, your reactions, your behavior, were partially shaped by who and what your parents were.”

“Genetics versus environment isn’t a new controversy.”

“I don’t think it’s one versus the other. I think it’s a blend.”

“Why are you so hung up on Jeremy’s
blend
?”

“Because when I write about somebody, I want to know these things.”

He had admitted to carefully observing individuals in an effort to learn what made them tick. Gauging by the stories she’d read online, he did more than that when he wrote about a person. He provided his readers a cross-section of their mind and soul. Which was disconcerting.

“Are you going to write about me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“If you do, will you dissect me and hang me out there for all to see?”

“In order to do that, I would need to know things about you.”

“You already do.”

“Not enough. Not nearly.”

“What else could you possibly wish to know?”

He stared into her eyes for a ponderous moment, and that should have warned her of what was coming. It didn’t. She was totally unprepared.

“I want to know about your father’s suicide.”