Ryan's Return (13 page)

The last thing she wanted to do was fail. Stopping anything she had undertaken would mean failure. She had no choice but to go on.

The flash of light startled her. For a moment she thought the lightning had returned; then she realized it was the flashbulb on Ryan's camera.

"You didn't take a picture of me, did you?" she asked in alarm. "I'm a mess." She pushed her hair behind her ears.

"I like messy. It's more interesting than clean."

She made a face at him.

Ryan snapped another shot.

"Stop that."

"Hey, you're the one who insisted I take photos."

"But not of me. Of the fair, of the vendors, of the townspeople."

"You are one of the townspeople. One of the prettier ones, I might add."

"You're a charmer, I'll give you that."

He walked over to the table. "How's it going?"

She held up the large circle of unsold tickets. "Slow. Very slow."

"The weather, no doubt."

"No doubt."

"Guess I'll wander around," Ryan said. "Unless you'd like some company?"

She wanted to say yes. He looked good in his forest-green twill slacks and tan shirt, and his eyes had their usual sparkle. She realized then that he was always lit up, a man who lived life to the fullest, who loved adventure, who always played offense.

She felt pale next to his tan, listless next to his energy, insecure next to his confidence. She wondered if Andrew felt the same way, if that's why he had such a difficult time dealing with his brother.

"If you don't need me, I guess I'll go," Ryan said when she didn't answer.

"Sure, walk around. Take some shots." She glanced through the front door, where she could see all the way out to the sidewalk. "Why don't you go now?"

Ryan stepped behind her so he could look out the door. Andrew and Billy were walking up the steps. They stopped to wave to someone else. Then they smiled at each other as they waited for that someone to join them. Seeing them together, side by side, touched Ryan in a way he couldn't fathom.

Father and son. His eyes blurred with emotion, and for a moment Andrew looked like Jonas and Billy looked like Andrew or himself as a young boy.

Ryan had never felt the need to re-create himself until this very second, until it finally occurred to him that the only way he would ever have a family was to build his own. There was no room for him now with Andrew or Billy or Jonas. They didn't want him and they didn't need him.

As he looked away from Andrew, he glanced over at Kara's face. She was watching them, too, but her expression looked troubled instead of joyful. He wondered what she was thinking. He wondered if he was partly the cause of the frown that creased her forehead.

He shouldn't have kissed her last night. He should have stayed the hell away from that sun porch. Because getting to know her had only made him want to know more of her. He couldn't see her with Andrew at all. She was a redhead, for God's sake. She had a temper and passion and an unbelievable amount of stubbornness. She would drive Andrew crazy in a second.

Andrew was too methodical for Kara, too organized, too predictable, too stuck in his own ways, in the old ways. Why couldn't they see that they were wrong for each other?

Just like Becky Lee and Andrew.

God, it was happening again.

And if push came to shove, Kara would pick Andrew, because Andrew knew one very important thing: He knew how to give a woman what she wanted, and Ryan didn't. He couldn't figure out what he wanted, much less what a woman wanted.

Ryan backed away from Kara, away from Andrew and Billy and the past that was creeping up on him. When Andrew reached the front door, Ryan turned and jogged down the hall. He didn't stop until he got to his old locker, until he saw the scratching in the corner and the initials BLW and RH wrapped around a heart.

He couldn't escape. Everywhere he looked there were memories. He couldn't hold them back any longer. They were everywhere. He saw the janitor's closet and remembered when he had smoked his first cigarette. He walked down the hall and saw the fire extinguisher that the principal had used to put out his first cigarette. A smile curved his lips at the thought.

At the end of the hall, he jogged up the stairs past Mr. Conrad's classroom, where he had taken ninth grade algebra and fallen in love with Kristie, or was it Donna Jean?

The next classroom had belonged to Hannah Davies. She had taught English then, and she had forced him to read by offering him a deal he couldn't refuse. For every chapter he read in War and Peace, she would let him publish a photograph in the school newspaper. He had jumped at the chance, because Jonas refused to publish any of his photos in The Sentinel. And Ryan had wanted to prove that he was a good photographer, so he had finished that damn book, every last page.

The experience had changed his life, not the reading really, but the photography. That's when he had first thought of making a career for himself away from the town, away from his father's newspaper.

Ryan lifted his camera and took a shot of the hallway, of the artwork, of the drinking fountain, of the desks and the books and the lockers, of everything that was high school, everything that was youth. He could almost see a pictorial in his mind, the rites of passage at a small-town American high school.

Damn. He caught himself just in time. He was starting to think like Kara, to believe that the outside world would have an interest in a town like Serenity Springs.

But the shots were taken, and he couldn't help loading another round of film. It was easier to look at the school through the lens of his camera. He could divorce himself from his surroundings. He could keep the memories on the other side of the lens. He could remind himself that he was only a spectator, not a participant. Only the players could feel pain and joy, not the people watching.

He tried to hang on to that thought as he prowled the hallways of his past, trying desperately to focus on the people who were there now, and not on the people he remembered.

"This place brings back a lot of memories," Andrew said as he sat down next to Kara at the front table.

"Good ones?" she asked, pleased that Andrew had initiated some personal conversation.

"Mostly." He looked down the hall to where Ryan had vanished. "I wonder what he thinks."

Kara barely caught the softly spoken words and doubted that Andrew intended to say them aloud. "Ryan probably thinks the school is smaller than he remembers. When I first came back, everything seemed smaller. Of course, I left as a child, and Ryan left as an adult, so maybe it's different."

Andrew shrugged. Sharing time was apparently over. He handed her a white paper bag.

"What's this?" she asked.

"A turkey and cranberry sandwich from the diner."

She smiled at him with pure delight. "My favorite."

He nodded, looking extremely pleased with himself. "I thought you might be hungry."

"I'm starving."

"Why don't you take a break? I'll sell tickets for a while."

"That's sweet of you." Impulsively she kissed him on the cheek. His skin felt smooth beneath her lips and somewhat cool, chilled from the storm, she supposed.

Andrew touched her cheek with his hand. It was the most intimate gesture she had had from him in several days.

"I want to make you happy," Andrew said, his tone somber. He had none of Ryan's humor. No sparks of light firing from his eyes. No hint of mischief just beneath the surface.

"You do -- make me happy," she said, realizing he was waiting for an answer. She just wished she sounded more definite, less wishy-washy.

"I'm sorry about yesterday, about the jail, your eye, everything."

He sounded sorry, and Kara couldn't help responding to his tone. He was a good man, she told herself fiercely. He was trying hard to please her even in the midst of the impossible situation she had thrown him into. How could she have doubts?

She touched her eye. It was still tender but no longer swollen, and the bruise had faded. "I'm okay. Just remind me not to get between you and your brother again."

Andrew stiffened, and she realized her mistake.

"I don't want you between us," Andrew said. "I don't want you anywhere near him."

"Ryan can't get between us if we don't let him." And if I don't kiss him again.

"Ryan has a way with women," Andrew said. "I can't explain it. They just fall at his feet."

"Well, I'm still standing. Actually I'm sitting, but you know what I mean." She tried to smile, but Andrew didn't respond. "I think I will take a break." She stretched her arms over her head. "I'll be in the teacher's lounge if you need me."

"Okay. Oh, I almost forgot." He handed her a copy of The Sentinel.

A montage of photos from the banquet covered the front page. The newspaper photographer had caught the excitement of the moment and none of the tension. There was no sign of Ryan, however.

"It's nice," she said. And it was nice. It was just a little bland, a little too safe. Not that she wanted controversy, but she also didn't want boring.

"The other papers will use Ryan's picture. This is the best I could do."

Kara tried to shake off the feeling of disappointment. "I understand."

"My father. He could barely do this. It goes against the grain."

"I thought he was a professional. I thought you were -- " She stopped herself just in time. "I'm sorry. I'm tired, and I didn't mean that. I better take that break before you're sorry you came down here."

He was already sorry, Andrew thought as he watched Kara walk away. She looked beautiful in her floral skirt and teal blue sweater, as gorgeous as any woman in any city. And not just good-looking but smart, too. He was proud of what she had accomplished, proud that he was with her. Proud. But even reinforcing the word in his mind didn't make it ring true.

In fact, he was more worried than proud, afraid that Kara's determination to bring progress to the town would ultimately destroy what they both loved. He also worried about their future as a couple. With Jonas angry at Kara, and Ryan itching to cause trouble between them, Andrew knew anything could happen.

He wanted the centennial to be over. He wanted the outsiders to go home so his father could relax and Ryan could disappear. He wanted back the Kara that he loved, the woman who cooked and baked and mothered the kids and still had time for him. It was okay that she had the Gatehouse. He understood she needed independence and a source of income, but he didn't like her work for the chamber of commerce. He didn't appreciate it when she put the interests of the developers before his own. He wanted her to think the way he thought, to believe in the things he believed in. Was that too much to ask?

Andrew shifted his position, feeling restless and disturbed by his rampaging thoughts. He wanted this relationship to work. He wanted Kara to be the right woman, yet he had doubts, not just about her but about himself. His mother had left him. Becky Lee had left him. What if he wasn't man enough for Kara? What if she left him, too?

But Andrew couldn't tell Kara how he felt. He couldn't let her see how insecure he was deep down inside. He had to keep his distance emotionally until she was committed to him, until he felt safe enough to open up to her. Only then could he tell her the truth.

"I'm telling you the truth," the lady said as she hovered above Angel, her long black hair blowing in the wind.

Angel stared at the ghost through wide, disbelieving eyes. "You're not real," she said. "I'm just imagining you, like I imagine everything." She shook her head as she looked at the river and the trees and the threatening black clouds on the horizon.

She had come down to the river to see if the water had reached the bottom of Tucker's Bridge, the lowest bridge over the river, and it had. The sight scared and excited her. All that power rushing by. It made her feel as if she could change the world by herself. It made her want to believe in anything.

"I need your help, Angel. You're the only one I can trust."

"Why?" Angel looked up at the ghost.

"Because you're willing to believe in me."

"I want to," Angel said carefully. "But my mom doesn't believe in ghosts."

"She used to believe in love. So did Ryan and Andrew -- even Jonas. But nobody believes anymore. No one but you. We have to change that. Please help me,

Angel." She pointed to a fleck of gold in the dirt by the corner of the bridge. "In another hour the water will cover it up again. You must get it now."

Angel hesitated. This was getting weird. Was she imagining the whole thing? Was this just the best story she had ever told, so good that she felt as if she was living it?

"Angel, please don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid -- not exactly. Okay, I'll get it. Is it your locket?" Angel asked as she walked over to the bridge.

"No, but it's very important."

Angel brushed through the dirt with her hands. Excitement swept through her as she saw a sparkle of light. She dug her fingers into the dirt and pulled out -- a kid's watch with Mickey Mouse hands. "It's a watch," she said, somewhat disappointed.

"Yes, it is."The lady started to cry, and her tears fell like raindrops on the river. "Give it to Ryan," she said, and her words carried on the wind like a song as she faded away.

"Wait, don't go!" Angel cried. But the lady was gone.

Angel turned the watch over in her hand. There was something written on the back. She caught her breath at the words. To Ryan. Love, Mom.

Ryan stared at the sprawling house he had called home for the first twenty-one years of his life. A large deck on the first floor wound around the front of the house, overlooking the river. There was a smaller deck on the second floor, two actually, one outside his father's room and one outside his old room. Andrew's room, on the back of the house, didn't have a deck. Ryan would have felt claustrophobic without an escape route, but Andrew apparently had never felt the need to escape.

Ryan sighed as he wondered again why he had come.

Of course he knew why. Because he couldn't leave without seeing his father again.

He didn't need Jonas's approval, but he did need to say "I told you so." It wasn't honorable. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was damn stupid, but Ryan still had a burning desire to say those words to Jonas's face, to make his old man realize that he had made it without him, without the town, without the goddamned river.

His adrenaline pumping, Ryan stalked up the steps to the house. He knocked on the front door, his heart pounding against his chest. No one answered. He knocked again, then pushed the doorbell. Nothing happened.

Jonas wasn't home.

What a letdown.

Ryan instinctively tried the door. The knob turned. Of course Jonas hadn't locked the door. He lived in a town where crime was nonexistent. He lived in a state of mind that allowed no room for fear or caution. But that world was slowly disappearing. Ryan wondered if Jonas would ever catch on.

After a momentary hesitation, Ryan walked inside. The house was neat as a pin. No dust. No clutter. Just stark furniture and stark white walls. The only paintings were of the river. The only rugs were handcrafted by local artisans. The only photos on the mantel were of Andrew and Jonas and Billy.

It was a masculine house, yet there were still a few surprising traces of his mother -- the bud vase Jonas had given Isabelle on their wedding day; the needlepoint pillow his mother had struggled to make all those years ago, now worn and somewhat yellow, but still there.

Ryan walked upstairs and saw his mother's oak chest at the end of his father's bed. He wondered for the first time why Jonas had kept so many of her things. For a man supposedly filled with bitterness, he had lovingly cleaned and dusted the furniture he had built for Isabelle.

Why?

Ryan realized he had never noticed these things before. Maybe because they had always been there. Maybe because he had never stopped to consider there was another side. Now, without his father's domineering presence in the house, things seemed much clearer.

Ryan moved down the hall to the next room, inexplicably drawn to his old bedroom. He slowly turned the knob, trying to prepare himself for whatever he would see.

The room was dark, the storm clouds and heavy foliage blocking most of the daylight. Ryan switched on the light and caught his breath as his past hit him hard in the face.

It was the same. Everything was the same. His posters -- an eclectic mix of baseball players and jazz musicians -- his collection of mysteries and school yearbooks, his baseball signed by Willie Mays, and his photograph of his mother.

Ryan grabbed the edge of the desk and steadied himself as he looked at Isabelle. He had meant to take the picture with him years ago, but in the haste of leaving he had left it behind; he'd been too proud to go back for it. He thought Jonas would have burned it by now. It had been a source of contention between them for years. But here it was, and not a speck of dust on it. Which meant Jonas had come in here. He had cleaned the room. He had touched Ryan's things over and over again.

Suddenly it was too much. Ryan walked out of the room and pulled the door shut. He ran down the stairs. He had to get away -- to think. But when his foot hit the last stair, Jonas walked in.

Ryan stopped abruptly.

Jonas did the same.

The ticking clock echoed through the room, counting off the seconds, the minutes, and the years since they had last seen each other.

"I see you let yourself in." Jonas tossed his car keys on the table.

"I see you still don't lock the door."

His father's gaze burned a hole right through him. Ryan wanted to look away. He wanted to hide. But he forced himself to stand tall and straight and proud. He didn't have anything to apologize for. His father was the one who had broken up the family. His father was the one who had driven him from Serenity Springs. If anyone should apologize, it had to be Jonas.

"Why the hell did you come back?" Jonas asked.

"I was invited."

"That isn't the reason."

Ryan shrugged. "I wanted to see the old homestead."

"More like you wanted to show us what a big man you are now. Too bad nobody cares."

Big man? Talking to his father, Ryan felt nine all over again. But he'd be damned if he'd let it show. "Enough people cared to give me the keys to the city. I don't think they've ever given you the keys, have they?"

His father headed toward the kitchen.

"Don't walk away from me," Ryan shouted. He would not be dismissed that easily. He followed his father. "You can't admit you were wrong about me, can you?"

Jonas washed his hands in the sink. "Wrong about what? As far as I'm concerned, you ran away, deserted a pregnant girl, and left your brother to pick up the pieces. You're selfish through and through."

"Becky Lee was pregnant?" It was the only part of his father's statement that stuck with Ryan, maybe because it was so shocking. He had thought he knew everything back then. But he hadn't known that.

"As if you didn't know," Jonas said scornfully.

"I -- I didn't."

Jonas opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.

"Did she tell you she was pregnant?" Ryan asked.

"Yes."

"Did Andrew know?"

"Yes."

"I wonder why she didn't tell me," Ryan said, speaking more to himself than to his father.

But Jonas heard him, and he couldn't resist offering his own explanation. "Knew she couldn't count on you, that's why. Just like I couldn't count on your mother."

"My mother? She wasn't the problem. You were."

"She left you. I didn't."

"You sent her away." It was the same argument that had driven him away twelve years ago. Ryan hadn't meant to bring it up, hadn't wanted to get into a fight. He had meant to stay detached, in control. But suddenly that seemed impossible. "You may have fooled everyone else into believing you had nothing to do with her leaving, but you and I both know differently."