Summer Shadows (16 page)

“Good for you. And don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Karlee’s grip on Abby’s neck eased.

Marsh smiled as he patted Jess on the shoulder. “Do you remember me, Jess?”

She studied him from behind Abby, then nodded. “I don’t remember your name.”

“I’m Dr. Winslow. I live right here.” He pointed to the house.

“Mrs. Patterson lives here, too,” Jess said.

Marsh nodded. “She lives upstairs, and I live downstairs.”

“Where does he live?” Jess whispered, looking toward Rocco deMarco.

“He lives next door.”

“Is he Walker’s father?”

Marsh looked at the man, who nodded. “Yes, he’s Walker’s father.”

“He’s very mad.” Jess looked at Abby.

“Yes,” Abby said softly, “but he isn’t leaving. We’re going to work it out.”

Marsh gave Abby a glance and a little smile. “I’ll be right back.” He walked to the battered Lexus, Rocco following on his heels. A blond fallen angel-cum-hero and a black-haired villaincum-father. What a pair.

Marsh raised an eyebrow as he examined the damage. “What happened?” he asked Rocco in an easy, interested voice.

“A guy driving one of those rented vans and pulling his car behind ran me off the road. He pulled in too soon after passing me. I had to swerve or get creamed.” He turned from Marsh to Abby to Marsh as he talked. “If there hadn’t been a guardrail, I’d have gone down an embankment.”

Abby wanted to believe him for Walker and Jordan’s sakes, even for Vivienne’s, but she was uncertain what to think.

Marsh nodded as he rubbed a finger along a particularly deep gouge. “Where did this near accident happen?”

In spite of Marsh’s neutral tone, Rocco erupted again. “Who do you think you are, questioning me? You got no right! I’ll get a lawyer after you. I’ll sue for defamation of character!”

Marsh waited until Rocco took a breath, then jumped in, his voice firm but uncompromising. “We’ll talk again sometime when you can talk, Mr. deMarco, not scream. Until then—” Marsh turned and walked back to Abby and the girls, leaving the astonished Rocco to stare after him, mouth hanging open.

Marsh winked at Abby, then turned to Karlee. “Hey, sweetheart. Let me carry you upstairs, okay? Abby’s arms must be wearing out by now, holding a big girl like you.”

Karlee lifted her head; her eyes were dark with fright and fatigue. Abby’s heart broke. She bent to place a kiss on the little
girl’s cheek. She transferred Karlee to Marsh and watched as she snuggled against his chest, her cast resting in her lap.

“Comfy?” Marsh asked.

Karlee nodded, her little face too serious.

“Relax, honey,” Abby said, resting a finger against her little nose. “We’re all fine. The trouble is over.” At least for the moment. “Dr. Winslow has you, and he’ll keep you safe.”

Marsh looked at Abby, his expression somber. Then his eyes glinted, and Abby held her breath.

“She’s right. I’ve got you all right and tight. I
know
you’ll be easier to manage than Abby was. She was an armful when I carried her up the stairs, let me tell you. She kicked and squirmed the whole way. I almost dropped her on her head.”

Jess looked from Abby to Marsh in disbelief. “Did you really carry her upstairs?”

Marsh grinned at Abby. “I did. And she weighs a ton, Jess. A ton!”

Abby scowled with exaggeration. “Don’t you believe him. I’m light as a butterfly.”

Jess giggled and followed Marsh and Karlee up the steps, dragging the pillow behind her. Shaking her head at Marsh’s nonsense and flexing her arms to get the circulation going again, Abby started toward the steps and froze. Standing where the cement and sand met was her father. One look at his face told Abby that he heard everything Marsh told Jess.

“Did you have a good walk?” she asked brightly.

“Abby!”

“There’s nothing like an invigorating morning walk on the beach, is there?”

“Abby, what’s he talking about?”

She just shook her head and grasped the banister. She was still quaking inside from the confrontation with Rocco deMarco, and her arms ached almost as much as her hip.
Not now, Dad
.

“What did he mean, he carried you up the stairs?”

Abby didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.

“Was he being forward? Inappropriate?”

“Marsh was fine, Dad. He’s never been anything but fine.”

“But why would you let him carry you? Oh, Abby, what would Sam say?”

Thinking that for obvious reasons, Sam’s opinion was the least important thing to consider at the moment, Abby began pulling herself up step by step. “Marsh was just teasing Karlee, Dad. He likes to joke.” She knew she’d be more convincing if her cheeks weren’t so red.

Her father reached out a hand and held her still. “Are you saying he didn’t carry you?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes. How had such a silly episode taken on all the trappings of a major seduction?

“Abby, I don’t like that man touching you. You can’t stay here.”

“Dad.” She swallowed her frustration. “Marsh is fine. He really is. I—I like him.” What would Dad say if he knew Marsh had waited up for her last night? That didn’t bear thinking about.

A slammed car door drew her attention. Rocco deMarco had climbed into his battered Lexus. She watched him careen into the street and bolt down Central. She hoped no one was between him and his destination, given his present ugly mood.

“I say the man is unsavory.”

Abby glanced at the empty parking spot. “It’s okay. I can stay out of his way.”

Dad stabbed his finger toward the deMarco house. “Not him.” He jabbed at Marsh’s place. “Him.”

Marsh was unsavory? She almost laughed. Infuriating, yes. Aggravating, yes. Kind to children even when they invaded his privacy, yes. But unsavory? “Dad, he’s a tease. He’s also a seminary professor.”

Dad blinked, nonplussed, though he recovered quickly. “That doesn’t mean you can trust him.”

“Trust him with what?” Abby asked. “My jewels? My virtue? My life? He’s just the guy who lives downstairs, nothing more. Don’t go making mountains out of molehills.”

Dad looked at her. “Now I know you’re hiding something.”

Abby stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Mountains out of molehills. A cliché. You always talk in clichés when you’re hiding something.”

Abby resisted the urge to scream. She took a deep, calming breath. “Dad, give it a rest. Even if I were hiding something, I’m allowed. I’m twenty-nine years old. I can have secrets if I want, even from my parents.”

Dad stared at her, eyes heavy with sorrow. “Abby, you’ve changed.”

I hope so
, but she knew to say it would just hurt him.

“Come home with us, baby, before it’s too late.” His eyes pleaded, repeating the entreaty in his voice.

She turned back to the stairs and continued up. “No, Dad. This is my home now.” She passed Marsh midway as he returned to his place. “Troublemaker,” she hissed without looking at him.

“My pleasure,” he hissed back, laughter in his voice. As he passed Dad, he nodded his head and said in a most civil tone, “Sir.”

“Uh,” Dad managed, and it was all she could do not to giggle at his disgruntled tone.

When she reached the porch, she found Karlee lying on the chaise lounge with Mom arranging pillows behind her.

“This dear child was hit by a car,” Mom said, appalled.

“Yes, I know.” Abby put her purse on the now cleared table. Mom had been at work, and this time Abby appreciated the help.

“She saw it.” Jess pointed at Abby.

Fortunately Mom was too busy cooing over Karlee and Dad was too busy staring suspiciously down the steps after Marsh to have heard. Abby breathed a sigh of relief. She caught Jess’s eye, put her finger to her lips, and shook her head. Jess looked surprised, but she nodded and put her hand over her mouth. Abby relaxed. At least there was one topic she wouldn’t have to explain to Mom and Dad.

Or so she thought.

H
E CRUMPLED THE
newspaper and tossed it in the trash on his way outside.
There was an eyewitness
. It was confirmed right there on the front page just below her picture.

The very thought of it made him break out in a cold sweat. She could ruin it all, bring him down with just a word. All she needed to do was remember something, anything, and it was all over. The appointment would be out the window.

Of course she might never remember. Frequently, people never fully recalled moments of great trauma. Still, he couldn’t depend on her faulty brain chemistry. It would be putting himself too much at risk. He had to find a way to destroy her before she destroyed him.

It was too bad in a way. She was a very attractive woman in spite of the limp. Under other circumstances he would have enjoyed getting to know her. She had a lovely smile, and those black eyes of hers were memerizing. He grinned as he raced along the off-island roads of Ventnor on his cycle. How he could have enjoyed himself as he made those eyes sparkle with extra life. He had a marvelous and much deserved reputation with the women, a reputation he took care to nurture with his ready charm. They all loved him, even when he broke up with them. She would have been no different.

The fact that she was his enemy rather than his potential lover was but one more sign of the unfairness of life.

Of course, the ultimate way to rid himself of the danger she represented was to kill her. He blinked. Kill her? He frowned. Where had that thought come from? It was common knowledge that McCoy had killed and gotten away with it. In fact, the streams deep in the Pines were probably slowly devouring more than one victim of McCoy’s fierce hatred. He made it a general rule to avoid McCoy these days. He had put all his energy into legitimately escaping the Pines and his beginnings. McCoy had turned to the dark side, to the doing of horrendous deeds and the getting away with them.

Both of them had succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.

But kill her? Become like McCoy? Never! Besides, how would he do it? Shoot her? Run her over? Poison her? One thing he knew for an absolute certainty: He could never, never ask McCoy for help. A shudder rippled through him at the thought of what would happen if McCoy ever had such a hold over him. Blackmail would be the least of it.

Then there was that oath he’d taken:
First, do no harm
. No, deliberate murder was a whole different ball game, one he was not going to play.

He drove down the night-quiet road, flashing past the darkened houses on his street. Another thought gripped him as he pushed the remote to raise his garage door. He drove in and parked, revving the motor a couple of times before he turned the key.

Physical violence would just involve the cops more. That was the last thing he wanted. Even now he cringed at the risks he’d been forced to take to dispose of the car, risks taken for nothing if her memory returned.

His stomach growled, and he laid a hand over it. He’d missed dinner, something that hadn’t happened in years. Fine food was one of the great pleasures of his carefully constructed life. A sudden vision of macaroni and cheese shimmered before him. He shuddered. Growing up he’d eaten too many dishes on too many nights. Macaroni and cheese with hot dogs. Macaroni and cheese with tuna fish. Macaroni and cheese with bologna. For a break it
would be macaroni with canned spaghetti sauce poured over it.

And white bread. Mom brought home a loaf of Wonder Bread every day. He and his father—when he wasn’t sleeping—filled in their hunger holes with the squishy stuff. He liked to crush it into hard pellets and see how long it took a pellet to melt in his mouth. Sometimes he and McCoy took the bread pellets and went fishing in the Mullica River or one of the streams lacing the Pines. Then dinner had been something worth eating.

He’d been twelve when he became the family cook. His mother announced that she wouldn’t be making meals anymore. Her legs hurt too much after her shift at the Food Fair. She couldn’t understand why they were so painful when she was only thirty years old. She’d look down at them with a puzzled expression, though he doubted she could see them over the lump of her stomach.

“I’m too young for arthritis,” she’d say. “Old people get that.”

He’d stare at her and her close to four hundred pounds. Did she honestly not understand the link between excess weight and bad knees?

She drove an old red Chevette as rusty as the old bike he’d found at the dump. The car listed to the left so much it was a wonder the tires on the right didn’t leave the road. Kids sniggered every time they saw her drive by, especially McCoy.

“The left side’s gonna scrape the ground any day now,” he’d say.

He wasn’t the only one who made comments.

“I saw your mom in the store yesterday,” a kid at school would say. “Man, how does she ever fit in that small space beside the cash register?”

Or “Where does she find enough material for those tents she wears?”

One day the prettiest girl in class looked at him. “You’re built just like your mother, aren’t you? You look a lot like her.”

The comment hadn’t been particularly barbed. Now he recognized it as the comment of a junior high girl who didn’t realize the power of words to curdle the spirit. Or galvanize it. On that very day he established an exercise regimen and had kept it up to this very day. Then he’d run and lifted old cans he filled with sand. Today it was the sophisticated routines developed for him by his
personal trainer. He had kept the promise he made to himself that long-ago day: He would never, never look like his mother.

He lowered the kickstand on his cycle and set his helmet on the seat. Once inside he went directly to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a tumbler full of Scotch neat and collapsed on the sofa.

He forced himself to stop thinking of life in the Pines. He’d successfully escaped that prison. It was today’s problem that he needed to concentrate on. No matter how he looked at things, he was stuck with the problem of how to defuse a live time bomb before it exploded all over him.

M
ARSH WATCHED WITH
disbelief as person after person ran up and down Abby’s stairs all day. He’d never seen anything like it. If it wasn’t a little person with a high-pitched voice that curdled his eardrums, it was an adult with a tread like a gorilla.