Finding The Way Back To Love (Lakeside Porches 3) (35 page)

Muffled chimes called to him from the coffee table. He found his phone under his sweatshirt and squinted at the caller ID window. It was a Syracuse number, and the exchange was the same as his old precinct. “Hello?”

Someone said in a shaky voice, “It’s Bree, Peter. Please help me.”

“Where are you, Bree?” She sounded panicky and desperate.

“In jail.”

“Where exactly?”

“In South Onondaga.”

Peter pressed his eyes shut. That was his old, drug-infested work beat.

“I wasn’t drinking, I promise,” Bree babbled into the silence, “but I was with them and Fiona was drunk and ran a red light and hit a—”

“Are you hurt?” he barked. They could sort the rest out later.

“No. The others were taken to the hospital, and there was a ton of property damage. Peter, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t do it by myself. Peter, please come.”

“What’s the charge, and what’s your bail?”

“Um.” She coughed a few times. “He said Protective Custody, and it’s . . .” She paused as if she were asking someone for the answer. “Five hundred.”

“Who brought you in?”

“He says he knows you. His name is Hank.”

“Is he right there?”

“He’s across the room. Did you want to talk to him?”

“When I get there, if he’s around.” Peter walked with the phone into his bedroom and peered out the window.

“Do you have to work tonight?” Bree asked.

“They’ll understand.”
If they don’t, I’m fired
.

Snow had been falling about an inch an hour, but the sheen on the glass of the streetlamp told him ice had mixed in. “It may take a couple of hours, because the roads are bad.”

“Oh god, I’m sorry, Peter. Please be careful. And . . .”

“What, honey?”

“I love you, Peter.”

“I love you, too, Bree. I’m on my way.”

“They were in this precinct trying to score some heroin,” Hank told Peter. “It’s cheap and it’s sold everywhere on these streets. Honestly, if they’d gone on to do the drugs tonight, it would have ended much worse than her friend slamming into a minibus full of kids coming back from a basketball game. If Bree were my sister, I’d get her out of this city, away from this shit. The crowd she’s running with . . .” Hank shook his head. “She says she doesn’t even want to hang with them, but she’s going along for the ride.”

“We tried having her stay with me, and I blew it. I got all fired up about the DWIs we’re bringing in, and I guess I scared her with how angry I got.”

“I’ve seen you do that,” Hank said, and put a strong hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Not very often, but enough to know it’s all about your dad.” Hank paused. “Maybe you need some counseling. A lot of adult children of alcoholics do. Sounds like it’s causing a problem with Bree and, I’m thinking, maybe on the job, too. Is it?”

Peter nodded in defeat. “I wanted to ask you about coming back here.”

Hank stepped back and shook his head. “You know I want you back on the force. Everyone would say the same. But you get so emotionally involved with the kids on these streets, that you take risks. That’s how you got shot. Buddy, you almost died that night. I was there. I know.”

“Maybe I could study for detective or—”

“No,” Hank stopped him. “You’d be great, but it’s not possible right now. The way things are, they’d have you right here on the street again. You probably remember I had just made detective when I was put on temporary assignment here. That was two years ago, and they still need me here. This is top priority right now, and you and I are highly qualified for it.”

Peter’s eyes shifted to the scene down the hall—jacked up teens in handcuffs shuffling through the door to lockup. He thought of the late-night, pickup basketball games in Tompkins Falls with Stretch and his buddies.
I’m doing more good in Tompkins Falls
.

“Sometimes,” Hank said, his gruff voice suddenly wistful, “I dream about moving to a smaller city, like you did, with my wife and her parents. Torie and I want to start a family, and she’s scared to death I’m going to take a bullet some night.”

Peter searched his friend’s brown eyes. He suggested, “Think about coming to Tompkins Falls.”
But I have to clean up my act, so they don’t think any buddy of mine is a loser
.

Commotion by the desk caught Hank’s attention. “Gotta go, pal. My advice? Get Bree someplace safe, away from her so-called friends, and get her some treatment. Maybe there’s a rehab that also has help for families, for you.” As he walked away, he called back over his shoulder, “Keep in touch, Peter. I mean it.”

Chapter 17

As Peter trudged up the stairs ahead of Bree, he encountered an empty bottle of cheap gin. He set it upright at the far edge of the step and glanced back at his sister.

“Yeah, I saw it,” Bree muttered.

They neared the landing for Bree’s floor, and Peter tuned into the sounds from the neighboring apartments. In one unit, a woman slurred her words and a man mocked her in a loud voice. In another unit, a television broadcast the grunts and jeers of a wrestling match. Toward the end of the hall, a baby cried fretfully, with no accompanying sounds of cosseting or comforting.

His stomach clenched.
She needs people who encourage her to finish school and make a career.
He steeled himself not to get into it yet; this stinking hallway was not the place for that discussion.

When she reached the landing, Bree brushed by him. She fumbled with her key, tried, and failed to open her front door.

“Take your time,” he said.

She glanced back at him, her forehead wrinkled with worry.

He identified the smell then—marijuana. A glance at the third-floor landing showed a film of smoke hanging by the door of the unit directly above Bree’s.

He kept his voice light when he asked, “Anything beside pot go on up there?”

She nodded and turned back to her task. Her hands shook so badly the keys rattled. Finally, she lowered her head in defeat and handed him the key ring.

Peter opened her door and waved for her to go in first. “Let’s get you warm and fed,” he told her. He closed the door behind them and shot the deadbolt home, then shrugged out of his coat.

Bree hung up their coats without a word. She sniffled, and Peter wondered if she were crying, but she had turned her back to him.

He nudged the thermostat up to seventy degrees before saying, “Bree, I worry about you living here. Does it bother you?”

She didn’t answer, but when she set her boots on a plastic mat, and he saw tears on her cheeks. He reached for her, but she shied away and moved into the kitchen.

“I love you, Bree, and I hate that you’re in the middle of people using booze and drugs.”

“I know. Me, too.” Her voice quavered. She opened the refrigerator, and he couldn’t see her face behind the door.

Peter blew out his frustration and examined the humble living room. The hand-me-down furniture was in good repair, and the bare wood floor was clean. He recognized a rocking chair from their house growing up and a marble-top table he’d crashed into one night when his father had backhanded him for no reason. His hand went unconsciously to the spot behind his right temple where he’d had a goose egg for a week when he was eight. A few years later, he’d grown bigger than his father, and there were no more encounters with furniture. Then his father died of liver failure, and the rest of them—their mother, Bree, and him—got on with things, peacefully.

The blue slipcover on Bree’s sofa was neat and spotless. “I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight,” he offered. He hoped it wasn’t the sofa from home that his father had peed on.

“Thanks. There’s an extra pillow and stuff.”

He moved one foot into the kitchen. “Can we talk?”

Bree closed the refrigerator without having taken anything out. She raised her eyes to the ceiling—or maybe to heaven. Peter wondered if she believed in God. He did. Mostly. Not that he prayed much, and rarely about anything personal.

“I think if I eat first, I’ll stop shaking. Okay if I make us tuna sandwiches?”

“Sure. Thanks, honey.” He had never before called her honey. He didn’t know why he said it now, but the effect was dramatic.

Bree turned and reached for him. “I need you to help me,” she choked out. “I need—”

He closed the distance and drew her to him. “I’m here, Bree,” he rasped. “We’ll figure this out.”

She sobbed, great heaving sobs while he held her and rocked her.
God if she’s not praying to you, I am for her
. He felt a few tears on his own cheeks, and his chest ached.

In time, her breathing quieted. “Are you going to yell?” she asked in a meek voice.

“Probably. I’m that upset. But I’m going to help you. Give me a chance.”

She nodded against his chest and tightened her arms around his waist.

He stroked her back and told her again, his voice strong this time, “We’ll figure this out.”

Finally, she drew in a deep cleansing breath and let it out. When she snuffled her nose, he said, “Go find some tissues. I’ll make the sandwiches.”

“Thanks.”

Before she slipped away from him, he cradled her face with his hands and planted a kiss on her forehead. She gave him a little smile but made no comment.

Once the bathroom door closed behind her, Peter heard her blow her nose a few times, and then the shower started up.

In her compact kitchen, he filled the teakettle and set it on high. He found multi-grain bread in the freezer. A blue flowered cover disguised an old toaster. Next to it was a teapot under a matching cozy.

Cans of tuna stood three high in a free-standing shelving unit, with a few other groceries—taped-shut boxes of cereal and crackers, cans of fruits and vegetables, three twelve-packs of bottled water, open boxes of tea, a jar of peanut butter and a sticky container of honey on a chipped saucer. No ants or roaches. The place was immaculate.

He opened the refrigerator in search of mayonnaise and lettuce. The expiration date on the mayonnaise was next spring, and the lettuce and tomatoes were fresh. In a drawer next to the stove, he found a cheap, manual can opener and set to work.

As he had for years at home, he assembled two sandwiches apiece, cut them on the diagonal, and plated them on Bree’s chipped, aqua Fiesta ware. He grabbed two glasses from the cupboard, with the intention of filling them with tap water, but stopped. With a backward glance at the shelves, he wondered if Bree always used bottled water. He set the glasses aside and got down two mugs for tea.

The teakettle whistled. As he finished filling the pot, the doorbell rang.

“Damn.” Thanks to the whistling teakettle, someone knew Bree was home.

He eyed the door, his mouth set in a grim line. Bree opened the bathroom door a crack.

They made eye contact, and she shook her head. She wore a towel wrapped around her curves, and her hair was swathed in another. One black curl escaped the towel, and a rivulet of water tracked down her cheek onto her jaw.
God, she’s a beautiful young woman.
He’d do anything to protect her.

His took a step toward the door.

Bree’s loud whisper implored him. “No!” With a determined face, she rushed the door.

The doorbell rang again, and a deep male voice called in a seductive tone, “Bree, baby, come on up and have some with me. We’ll have a good time, baby, you and me.”

Bree had beaten her brother to the door, and she turned to face him, her back braced against the hard metal. Her bare shoulder covered the deadbolt.

Peter’s fists bunched as he came within an inch of her. His jaw was rigid. “Step aside, Bree.”

“No,” she hissed.

Peter worked his hand behind her waist onto the doorknob.

“Don’t open it,” Bree ordered through clenched teeth.

Their gazes locked.

“He’ll go away.” She placed her shaking hands on his chest and tried to push him back, but he stood like a rock wall.

She whispered. “He’s high, and there’s already someone with him upstairs. I could hear high-heeled shoes above me when I was in the bathroom. He’ll leave, Peter.”

The man’s voice wheedled. “You’ll be sorry, baby. I’ll make you sorry next time.”

“I’ll kill him!” Peter hissed, and his eyes flashed with fury.

“Please, Peter, let it go,” Bree begged. “I can’t take any more tonight.”

The man’s hard-soled shoes clip-clopped up the stairs. Peter’s hand relaxed on the doorknob.

When the door above them shut, Bree’s head dropped back, and she gave a shaky exhale. “Help me get out of this nightmare, Peter.”

“You need to be gone from here.”

“Yes.”

“We can drive tonight through the storm. We’ll be all right, Bree.”

“No, not tonight. You slid all the way from the police station, and I could hear ice pellets on the bathroom window just now. We need to stay here tonight, and we’ll go in the morning.”

He squeezed her arms. “Dry your hair while I set the table.”

Bree texted through their meal, claiming that her friends were worried about her arrest.

Peter stayed quiet and ate his two sandwiches.

Her texts shortened. Finally, she turned off her phone.

“Thank you,” Peter told her.

Bree propped her elbows on the table and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I need new friends who don’t drink and drug. I met some girls my age in AA, and I want to keep going to meetings so I can get my life together with their help.”

“Bree, you’re not an alcoholic,” Peter retorted.

“I am,” she snapped.

His fist hit the table, and he cringed at his own display of temper.
Keep it together. Let her talk
. “I’m sorry, Bree. Please tell me what you mean.”

She drew in a deep breath and sat tall. “You know, Peter when I go to an AA meeting and I say I’m an alcoholic, no one says ‘No you’re not,’ or ‘You’re too young,’ or ‘I forbid you to be one.’”

He winced. He had really believed that was the right way to handle it. Bree had always looked up to him and tried to follow his lead.

Bree continued. “They say ‘Hi, Bree.’ They say, ‘Come along with us, we have a solution.’ And they’re living good, useful, sober lives, like I want to. Peter, I need that. If I move in with you, I
have
to go to AA, and I’m done sneaking behind your back to do it.”

“Don’t tell me, when you’ve gone out at night at my place, you’ve been going to AA meetings?”

“I just told you.” Her mouth was set in defiance.

“How—when—why didn’t you tell me?”

She threw up her hands and mouthed, “Hello.”

He scooted his chair closer to the table and leaned toward her. “Honey, please tell me. When did all this start?”

“In middle school. What matters is, it got really bad last winter. That’s when I couldn’t control my drinking anymore and started doing drugs, too, trying to control it.” Bree held herself tall and still. “I called Dad’s old friend Paddy O’Donnell. Paddy’s been sober a long time, and he took me to some AA meetings and introduced me to some women who were really nice. But I didn’t meet anyone my age, and I thought it wasn’t for me.”

Peter’s mouth was rigid as she talked, and his eyes flashed.

Bree took a steadying breath and continued, “My friends kept pushing me to party, and I didn’t know how to say no. They were the only friends I had. And you’ve seen this building. I don’t want to hang around here, alone, after work. That asshole upstairs won’t give me any peace.” Tears spilled over. “I just can’t make it work for myself here.”

“Answer me this, Bree,” Peter shouted, “what drugs are going on upstairs besides pot?”

“Why? Are you going to arrest them?” Bree snapped. She covered her face and shook her head. “I’m sorry. You yell and I turn into a smart-mouthed teenager. Please try not to yell.”

Peter’s anger deflated. He sat back and studied the gutsy young woman across the table. His heart went out to her, and he hated that he had made it harder for her, through his own ignorance. He tapped her arm. “I’m sorry, too. This whole thing has blown me away. I’m not going to arrest anyone. I just want to know more about what you’re using and how much and why and where it’s taken you.”

When she didn’t answer right away, he glanced at the marble top table. “I can’t believe, after all Dad’s shit, you’d let this happen to you.”

Bree uncovered her face and followed the direction of his gaze. She rested her hands on the edge of the table. Her voice carried the full force of her frustration. “I hated Dad, too, you know. I didn’t
choose
to be an alcoholic. I didn’t
let myself
be one. It’s a disease and it’s inherited. You’re lucky, Peter, you could have been one, too.”

His head swiveled toward her, and he gave it right back to her, “That’s a cop-out.”

“No.” Her hands slapped the table. “It’s reality. I have the same fucking disease Dad did, and I don’t want it to destroy me, too. I need help. That’s why I called Paddy O’Donnell, and he knew what I was talking about because he’s got the same disease. But he’s sober, and has been for a long, long time.”

Peter studied the faded blue tablecloth.
That name, Paddy O’Donnell
.
How do I know that name?

“Peter, he tried so hard to help Dad, but Dad couldn’t ever stay sober. I can’t stay sober by myself, but with AA I think I can.” She said it with hope in her voice. “And I want to try. I really want to get out of here and live with you, Peter, but I need you to support my recovery.”

When he turned his face to his sister, it was weighed down with pain and guilt. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

“When I was at your place I didn’t dare tell you I was sneaking off to a meeting, because I was afraid you’d throw me out.”

“I never—” He stopped.
What would I have done
? He thought back to the white car that discharged Bree at his place one night during her first visit. His eyes shifted to the twelve-packs of water on the pantry shelves. He belatedly registered the fact there was no wine or beer in her refrigerator, no bottles of booze under the sink or in the cupboard.

His dry laugh was directed at himself. “So when that woman drove you home, you hadn’t been listening to Irish music over a pint at the pub?”

“No, I’d been to a beginners’ AA meeting. And the last time I stayed with you, I went to two more meetings. Peter, there are young people in AA in Tompkins Falls. College kids and—” She snapped her mouth shut.

“And?”

She sat back. “I can’t tell you people’s names and stuff. It’s anonymous.”

He cocked his head. “Which means I would know some of the people you saw at the meetings?”

Bree averted her gaze.

“Like Tony Pinelli and Gwen, maybe?”

Bree nodded.