One Was a Soldier (19 page)

“Were you?” Fergusson asked.

“What?”

“Were you torturing prisoners?”

“No! Jesus! Whaddaya think I am?”

“I think you’re a good cop. I’m also thinking maybe a good cop who gets coerced or convinced to do bad things is going to wind up feeling pretty awful about it, later on.”

Sarah cut in before Fergusson could take over as therapist. “Hold it.” She made a time-out gesture. “Just hold it. Group therapy means we’re working together to find out what we need to know. We offer observations in positive ways. We don’t gang up and attack each other.” She looked around the circle, taking her time, making eye contact with each one of them. “I repeat. We’re going to talk about why you decided to get into the group.” She zeroed in on Fergusson. “Clare, we’re starting with you.”

FRIDAY, AUGUST 26

Clare eyed the glass of Macallan’s balanced on her porcelain sink. Why had she brought it in here, when she was brushing her teeth? Was she going to gargle with it? She spat, rinsed, wiped her mouth dry. She considered lipstick. She didn’t usually wear makeup, but this was a special occasion. She thought it was a special occasion. She thought she might be getting engaged. She closed her hand around the heavy square glass and downed half the Scotch in one gulp.

The bell rang. She put down the glass and hustled down the stairs to her almost-never-used front door. “Why so formal?” she was asking as she opened the door, but the sight of Russ in a suit and tie made her lose whatever else she was going to say.

“What?” He peered down at his tie. “Do I have a spot?”

“I’ve never seen you dressed up before.” She splayed her hand against her chest. “I’m speechless.”

“That’ll be the day.” He stepped in, and she backed away to circle around him.

She whistled. “You clean up real nice, Chief Van Alstyne.”

“You like it? You should see my dress uniform. Makes me look like an extra in
Naughty Marietta.
”

“Does it have a Sam Browne belt?”

“No, thank God. That’s a little too disciplinarian for my tastes.” He caught her hand. “Nice dress. You wore it at that dance in the park.”

“Mm-hmm.” She twirled, letting yards of poppy red silk wind around her legs. “I remembered you liked it.”

He smiled slowly at her. “Maybe we should just order a pizza and stay here.”

“Tempting.” She considered it for a moment. True to his word, Russ hadn’t been to her bed since the night she had found him waiting for her after the Ellises’ dinner. On the other hand, she had been promised a date. One date in four years. That didn’t seem like asking too much. “Maybe later. I want my chance to go to the ball.”

“Okay, Cinderella. Grab your wrap and let’s go.”

Outside, he opened his truck’s door and handed her in. “Where are we going?”

“You like miniature golf?”

She stared at him. “You’re joking.” He got behind the wheel and backed out of her driveway. “You are joking, right?”

He grinned at her. The windows were open, of course—he didn’t believe in air-conditioning unless the truck was going sixty—so she braced her elbow on the edge and showily propped her chin on her hand, staring outside as if the end-of-the-day shoppers and dog walkers were the most interesting things she’d seen that week. Russ looped around to Barkley Avenue, and she spotted the director of the Millers Kill Historical Society unlocking her car. Clare waved. “Hi, Roxanne!”

“What are you doing?”

“Just making sure we maintain our status as a hot topic of conversation.”

“Great. Now I know what’ll be first on the agenda at their next board meeting.”

“What? The two of us in your truck on a Friday evening? That’s positively wholesome. It’s not like anybody’s been able to see you sneaking into the rectory at all hours.”

“Jesus, it’s been less than a week. I had no idea you were such a sex fiend.”

Clare crossed her arms. “There’s such a thing as carrying discretion too far.”

“Not when you’re a minister in a small town, there isn’t.”

She sighed. “I know—but I don’t have to like it.”

He laughed. “How you made it through seminary and into the priesthood remains a mystery to me.”

“To you and the bishop both.” They had left the town behind, headed northeast. “Are we going to Lake George?” Russ didn’t say anything. “We are. We’re going to Lake George. Okay, what do you have to get dressed up for in Lake George?”

“Maybe I’m being all whimsical and we’re going for Italian sausage on the Boardwalk.”

She gave him a look. “Whimsical?”

“Hey, I can be as whimsical as the next guy.”

“That’s because to you, the next guy is a humorless law enforcement agent.”

He laughed and took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. She had a hunch about where they were going, but she kept her mouth shut over her smile. She didn’t want to take away a second of his pleasure at surprising her. She leaned back and watched the road slice between the lake and the mountains.

Sure enough, he slowed and pulled into a long drive marked by an understated white and green sign.

“The Sagamore!” She clapped in approval. “I’ve never been here, but I’ve heard Mrs. Marshall and Sterling Sumner talk about it.” Two of her vestry had summer homes on the lake. “Oh, it’s lovely.”

The drive crossed a wooden bridge and wound past clay tennis courts and crisp white bungalows before terminating at the entrance of the grand old resort. The parking valet opened her door before she had a chance to do it herself. “Checking in, sir?” the young man asked.

“Just dinner.” Russ handed him the keys.

“Darn,” Clare said, under her breath.

“Be good.” Russ ushered her up the porticoed steps. “We may be out of town, but this place gets a lot of local business. I figure we still have a twenty-five percent chance of running into someone we know.”

“So, no footsie during dinner?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Let’s see how long the tablecloth is.”

It was very long, and very white, in a dining room with the understated elegance that came with years of service to old money. Clare could see other diners, silver gleaming, glasses raised, but the heavy carpets and the plush chairs seemed to absorb the sound of clinking and conversation before it could reach them.

She blanched when she saw the prices on the menu, then thought of her grandmother’s dictum,
A lady never notices the cost of her dinner,
and kept her eyes left. In deference to Russ’s budget and his nondrinking status, she skipped the wine list and had the waiter bring her a whisky neat before the meal, and a single glass of merlot to accompany her beef Wellington. Oh, and all right, a nice little aperitif after, but she didn’t order dessert, and only took two bites of Russ’s key lime pie.

They talked nonstop through dinner, about the volunteer fair at the church and firearms training at the department; about gun surrender programs and going green at work. She admitted she was still trying to find a way to talk Will Ellis into therapy, and he told her he was worried about Eric McCrea’s two unexplained absences the last two weeks.

The coffees came and went, and she started to think she must have been wrong, that he wasn’t going to pop the question that night, when the waiter returned with the bill tucked inside a leather folder and Russ asked, “What’s going on outside? I keep hearing music.”

“Private party. The two weekends around Labor Day are our busiest of the year.”

Russ looked up from where he was signing the charge slip. “Oh. Can we still get down to the landing?”

This is it,
she thought.
Is this it?

“You certainly can, sir. The terrace isn’t closed to the public.”

Russ looked at Clare. “Feel like a little walk? There’s a great view of the lake from the boat landing.”

“Absolutely.” She pushed her chair back, and the waiter nipped in to pull it out of her way. Russ stood at the same time, snagging her wrap and draping it over her shoulders. She hid a smile, thinking how much her grandmother would have loved his manners. Her highest praise for a man had been “His mother raised him right.”

The back of the resort—or front, she supposed, if one arrived by boat—consisted of wide wings with deep porches leading down to a terrace thronged with people drinking, dancing, and talking too loudly. A white tent had been set up on the side lawn, sheltering tables, and a four-piece band tucked between the porch steps and the flower beds played Motown classics. Russ took her hand, and they walked down to the flagstones, skirting the party.

“What’s going on?” Clare craned her neck, looking for a bride and groom. Someone shrieked, there was a flurry of movement, and a heavyset young man stumbled into their path. Russ caught him by his coat sleeves before he could fall on his face.

“Easy there, buddy.” Russ righted the man, who swayed for a moment like a potted plant teetering back to level.

“Whoa. Thanks. Guess I’m a li’l juiced.”

“Is this a wedding?” Clare asked, amused.

The young man shook his head, which set him to swaying again. “’Sa company party. BWI Opperman.” He smiled proudly. “Great year, with alla construction.”

She wasn’t looking at Russ, but she could feel him stiffen. Talk about spoiling the mood. She wasn’t any fan of the owner of the Algonquin Waters Resort, but Russ held a personal grudge against the man he felt had driven a wedge between himself and Linda. She hooked her arm in his. “Have a great time,” she told the genial drunk, steering Russ toward the lawn.

She dragged him the first few steps, and then he gave himself a shake. “God. Opperman.”

“Forget about him. He’s here, he’s a part of the landscape, there’s nothing you or I can do about it.” She looked up into his frowning face. “Weren’t you going to show me the boat landing?”

He made a noise. Pointed away from the terrace. They walked across the lawn, sloping gently toward the black waters of Lake George. “Why the hell did he relocate up here? What was wrong with Baltimore? Isn’t that where the business originated?”

“Easier to hide the bodies up here in the mountains.”

He stopped. “Not funny.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry.” She turned to face him again. “I’m guessing he’s relocated because there’s a large pool of affordable workers up here. The resorts are only the tail end of the business, remember. It’s primarily development and construction.”

“I know that. What I don’t know is why the hell he can’t go to Alabama for his cheap labor, like everyone else.”

She paused again. They were nearer to the water than to the terrace now. She could hear the lapping of the waves and the wind sighing through the leaves of the trees shading the paths leading down to the landing. Mellow lights picked out the texture of crushed rock and velvety lawn. The sweet and peppery scent of unseen carnations drifted up from stone planters. “Russ.”

“Yeah?”

“I think this is very romantic, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” He led her onto the landing, their shoes thunking and clacking on the wood. He stopped. Looked at her. “You do?”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled at him in an encouraging fashion. “I think this is just about the most romantic place I’ve seen in the entire North Country.”

He grinned at her. “This is your way of telling me I should keep my mind on the business at hand, isn’t it?”

“That’s not precisely how I would have stated it, but…”

“This isn’t a surprise to you, is it?”

She started to laugh. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“God.” He wiped his hand over his face. “Okay, let’s see if I can get this done without making a complete idiot of myself.”

“Please feel free. I don’t mind.”

“That’s good. Because half the time, just being with you reduces me to a state of idiocy.”

She couldn’t stop smiling. “What about the other half?”

He took her hands. “The other half of the time, it’s like being at the summit of one of the high peaks with a stiff wind blowing. Terrifying and exhilarating and everything in the world in a completely new perspective.”

Her smile fell away.

“You make me … not better than I am, but more of who I am. Which
is
better. Do you know what I mean?”

She nodded. She didn’t think she could speak if her life depended on it. He glanced down at the wooden deck with a dubious expression. One side of his mouth quirked up. “I hope you didn’t have your heart set on me getting down on one knee.”

She shook her head. He reached inside his coat pocket. Took out a small box. Pried the lid open. Even in the dim light from the lanterns, the ring sparked like white fire. “Marry me. Please.”

She tried to answer him, but all that came out was a whispery rattle as her lungs emptied. She took a deep breath. Tried again. “Yes.”

“You don’t need to tell me right away,” he said. “I mean, maybe you ought to think about it.”

“Yes,” she said more firmly.

“I am fifty-two. And I’m planning to stay in Millers Kill. I mean, I suppose I could move after I retire, but I’m committed to heading up the force as long as—”

“Russ. I’m trying to say yes, here. I will marry you. I want to marry you. Let’s do it.”

“Really? I don’t want you to jump into anything without thinking it through.”

She laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Can I put it on?”

He pulled the ring out of its holder. Her hands were shaking so, she almost dropped it. He helped her slide it onto her finger. It was smooth and heavy, with three diamonds set low in fat circles of gold. “It fits.”

“I, uh, took your UVA ring off your dresser to size it.”

“Very sneaky.” She grinned up at him. “I like that in a man.” She flung her arms around him and he squeezed her back. “I love it.” She kissed him, a jubilant smack that turned into a long, sweet kiss that left her breathless. “I love you.”

“Good. How soon can we get married?”

“Let’s see. First, I have to get permission from the bishop.”

He released her. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Holy—I don’t have to go and ask him for your hand, do I?”

“No, it’s more like—a professional courtesy. Once I have his blessing, let’s see. We’ll get married at St. Alban’s. I could ask one of my friends from seminary to take the service … or maybe Julie McPartlin here in Lake George could officiate. She could do our counseling.”