Tell Me You're Sorry (28 page)

Mark ducked inside his car. He felt bad for not sticking around to make sure she got back to the hotel all right. But it was still light out. Besides, he was too distracted and unnerved by that phone call to be decent company to anybody.

He started up the engine, waved at her, and then pulled out of the lot.

As he headed down the street, he could see her in his rearview mirror.

She was standing just where he'd left her, watching his car.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

 

W
hen traffic wasn't atrocious like tonight, he usually made it from the TV station to his house in West Seattle in about fifteen minutes. It was eight miles on the odometer, and yet home seemed so far away right now.

Mark nervously drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He had to remind himself that even after he got home, hugged Alison, and checked in on Danny, it wouldn't change things. He would still have a woman out there asking questions about something he'd done twenty-seven years ago.

Merging onto the West Seattle Bridge, Mark thought back to when he was seventeen, and working as a valet at the Lake Ridge Country Club. He used to ride his bike to and from the club every day. That was an eight-mile trek, too. But it was worth it. On a busy day, he'd end up with over a hundred bucks in tips in his pocket. Some members there were premier snobs, and treated him like a peon. But most seemed to appreciate how he busted his ass for them.

“That Mark is a good kid. He's one hard worker. The way he's always on the go and running around, he's like shit at a pony show. He's all over the place.”

That strange, albeit high praise came from one of the club's most influential members, Mr. Ingalls. Dick used to imitate his mogul lawyer dad and repeat the quote to Mark just to tease him. Mark didn't mind one bit. A letter of recommendation from Richard F. Ingalls could help get him into a good college—just as long as Mr. Ingalls didn't use that “shit at a pony show” reference. Dick's dad encouraged him and Dick to hang out together. Apparently, he thought Mark might be a good influence on his son.

“You weren't friends with him?” Stephanie Coburn had asked.

“Not really. We didn't even go to the same school.”

But that summer of 1986, they weren't in school. And Dick didn't work, so he was at the club nearly every day—swimming in the pool, golfing, and getting into trouble. He was a cocky, good-looking guy with a rich and powerful dad. So people forgave him pretty easily—whether it was for driving a golf cart into a pond or for getting caught skinny-dipping with a girl after-hours in the club pool. And then there was that time he was discovered—once again with his pants off—on the golf course at midnight with a waitress from the club.

Dick would bring his pal, Brent Farrell, and a friend from Wisconsin, Scott Hamner, as his guests to golf or swim. They became the club's brat pack. Once Mark finished work, they'd invite him out with them. They'd take Mr. Ingalls's boat out, or they'd pool hop. There were drag races down Sheridan Road and impromptu late-night beer and bong parties down at Wilmette beach. For Mark, those were dangerous, giddy adventures. Most of the time, he was terrified they'd get in trouble, but he kept his mouth shut. Those summer nights partying with Dick and his friends sure beat pedaling home on his bike to a dinner his mother heated up for him.

Dick was a charmer. But he had a reputation for sleeping with a girl once or twice, and then wanting nothing to do with her. Even though they knew he was no good, girls at the club still gazed at him with adoring puppy eyes.

Mark knew what it was like to have an impossible crush. He looked at Selena Jayne the exact same way.

She had an angelic face and the body of a centerfold. The buttons along the top front of her waitress uniform always seemed ready to bust. She was so pretty, and so naively sexy—whenever she walked into a room, guys just stared.

Mark fantasized about her. But he kind of felt sorry for her, too. It seemed like she didn't have a very happy life.

Occasionally he was summoned into the dining room if a member needed something from their car. On these occasions, he'd see Selena waiting tables. He'd see the men leering and snickering. The wives would shake their heads and give their husbands a poke with their elbow. They all looked down on her or laughed at her. And sweet, trusting Selena just didn't get it.

Mark knew her enough to say hello. He lived for those rare moments they'd pass each other in or around the club. She always gave him a big smile and said hello back to him. After that, he'd get so tongue-tied, he couldn't say anything else.

One afternoon in mid-August, she said hello to him as he was punching in at the time clock. He managed to stammer a hello back.

“Your name is Mark, isn't it?” she said. “I asked around . . .”

“Yeah, hi, you're Selena, right?”

“Right.” She touched his arm. “Hey, you seem like a really nice guy. And I hear you're friends with Dick Ingalls, too. Do you think you could introduce me to him sometime? Because I think he's super-cute . . .”

Mark did his damnedest to act like he hadn't just been shot through the heart. “Well, I—I guess so. If I get a chance to introduce you to him, I will. But I should warn you, Dick is kind of a love 'em and leave 'em guy. He's not what girls call
boyfriend material.
”

That didn't discourage Selena, who introduced herself to Dick later that week.

“She asked me to take her to the movies on her night off,” Dick told him. “I just need to make sure my old man doesn't hear about it—or her old man.”

Dick's dad had chewed him out for having sex with that waitress on the ninth green. The girl even got fired for it. So although Dick used to joke about how much he wanted to lay Selena, he didn't want to push his luck going after another waitress from the club. Besides, Selena's groundskeeper father was a stern, scary, holy roller. Anyone messing around with his innocent little daughter was asking for trouble.

But when Selena asked him out, he just couldn't say no.

“Well, I hope you treat her nice,” Mark said.

“You've got it bad for her, don't you?” Dick laughed. “Okay, I tell you what, I'll let you have her. She's yours. The two of us will take her out, maybe get her a little drunk, and then I'll split. You can take over from there.” He poked his finger on Mark's chest several times. “But if you don't bang her, I'll be so pissed off. She's one fine piece of ass, and I'm giving her to you. Don't blow it, man.”

Dick Ingalls was his hero for a few days. Mark didn't take him seriously about having to “bang” Selena. Mark didn't plan on that happening. And he certainly didn't want to take advantage of her while she was drunk. Besides, he was a virgin. He told himself he'd be happy to have a quiet talk with her and maybe they could neck a little.

Oh, who was he kidding? He really wanted her.

But he also wanted it to be special.

Dick had gotten Selena to agree to meet the two of them at a bus stop in Winnetka. Mark took it as an encouraging sign that she'd welcomed having him along on the date.

But when they pulled up to the bus stop in Dick's red Toyota Celica convertible, Mark was horrified to see Brent had shown up there in his mother's station wagon—with Scott in tow. They were flirting with Selena, and she was laughing. But she seemed uncomfortable, too. She looked pretty in her sleeveless, pale blue dress and sandals.

Brent announced they had two bottles of Jack Daniel's, a bottle of Annie Green Springs wine, and two six packs of Old Style.

Dick insisted they take a bottle of Jack Daniel's, “and Annie Green Springs for the lady.” They cruised around for a while, with Selena sitting on Mark's lap in the front seat. He didn't mind that arrangement at all. Dick talked about losing Brent and Scott, who stayed on their tail. He sped up a few times, which seemed to get Selena pretty excited. She looked so beautiful with her hair blowing in the wind. Laughing and squirming, she kept her arms around him. She also took several gulps of the cheap wine, spilling some on him. Mark didn't mind that, either. But every once in a while, she'd reach over and touch Dick's shoulder. At one point, she even put her fingers through his hair and sighed.

That was when Mark started to feel like she was squishing him.

They never did lose the station wagon. Eventually, Selena announced she was starving. Dick gave the other two some money and sent them to Mustard's Last Stand. He was paranoid about being seen with a waitress from the club, even if she was on Mark's lap. So they parked in a church lot nearby and waited. It seemed odd he was worried about someone spotting them, and yet he drove all over with the convertible's top down. Then again, it was a beautiful warm night. And Dick drove fast. No one could have recognized Selena in the car while they were actually driving.

So many details about that night would later gnaw away at Mark. He would try to remember exactly where they'd gone, and wonder who might have seen them.

They ate at a picnic table at a deserted park near Tower Road Beach. Once they were out of the car and Selena was off his lap, Mark watched her latch onto Dick. And his friend did nothing to discourage her.

Dick was the one who suggested they go swimming. He knew a private beach in Glencoe, and said they'd have the place all to themselves.

As they were about to go back to their cars and head north to Glencoe, Selena broke away from Dick and walked over to Mark. He could tell she was a little tipsy. She gave him a shy smile, and kissed him on the cheek. “You're such a nice guy,” she whispered. “Would you mind going in the station wagon—so I can be alone with Dick? You know how I feel about him . . .”

He didn't even try to smile back at her. “Sure, no problem,” he murmured.

At that point, he was so tempted to ditch them, walk the mile to Green Bay Road, catch a bus to the club and then pedal home on his bike.

Instead, he'd climbed into the backseat of the station wagon and downed a few gulps of Jack Daniel's.

If only he'd ditched them.

Mark thought if there was one moment in his past he could take back, that would be it.

He tried to block it out of his mind as he headed down his street in West Seattle. He reached into the Mustang's console for the garage door opener. He pressed the button, and turned into his driveway. As the garage door opened, he carefully steered his Mustang into the very spot where Dina had killed herself.

“All three of them are dead,” Stephanie Coburn had told him. “Their families were killed, too . . . All of these men were widowers . . . Didn't your wife kill herself?”

Grabbing the bag of doughnuts Jenny had given him, he climbed out of the car and let himself into the house. He locked the door behind him, though it somehow seemed so futile. He wished he could just turn a latch and forget the past. It was catching up with him.

All he could do for now was try to keep his kids safe.

He was home at last, but nothing had really changed. He still had a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. It was how Dina used to describe her premonitions.

And too many times, those premonitions had come true.

 

 

 

Ryan pulled over in front of St. Paul's Episcopal Church on Harms Road. Stephanie hadn't given him the address, but it wasn't too tough looking up Episcopal churches in Glenview, and calling both of them to find out which one had a caretaker named Barton Jayne.

The church was an old stone edifice with a steeple. The red double doors were a fresh, bright contrast to the dull, dark backsides of the stained glass windows and all that gray stone. Along one side of the church was a small cemetery. With dusk hovering over the landscape, it looked a bit foreboding.

Ryan glanced toward the other side of the church—at a large Tudor house with a long driveway. An SUV and a sedan were parked there in the turnaround area. The garage was Tudor style, too, with a second-floor apartment. The lights were on in the windows.

Ryan climbed out of the VW. He was about to start down the driveway when he spotted an old man with an armload of flowers heading into the church by a side door. He was skinny with a full head of white hair. In his denim shirt and baggy, flat-butt jeans, he sure looked like a caretaker.

Hurrying toward the church, Ryan followed the man through the side door. Inside, it was dark and cool. Only a couple of low-watt spotlights were looming over the two sections of pews. Another dim light barely illuminated the altar. The old man was up there, changing the flowers in a pair of tall ornate vases on each side of the altar table.

The door clicked shut behind Ryan, and the sound seemed to echo in the cavernous church. With a bunch of flowers in his hand, the caretaker swiveled around to stare at him.

Ryan came up to the altar rail. “Excuse me,” he said. Suddenly, he felt like he was talking too loud. “Um, are you Mr. Jayne?” he asked in a quieter voice.

The old man didn't nod or shake his head. “Who are you?”

“My name's Mark,” Ryan lied. He noticed a bunch of old lilies on a towel, laid out on the stone-tiled floor. The caretaker had already replaced the flowers in one vase, and was about to fill the other. “My dad is Mark Metcalf . . .”

“That name doesn't mean anything to me,” the man said. Then he went back to his work as if Ryan weren't there.

“Well, if you're Barton Jayne, I think my father might have known your daughter, Selena,” Ryan said. “They worked together at Lake Ridge Country Club about thirty years ago. I guess you worked there, too.”

Frowning, the old man impatiently pushed the flowers around in the vase in a clumsy attempt to arrange them. “The name still doesn't mean anything to me,” he said. “But yes, I'm Barton Jayne, and I worked at that club for thirty-three years.”