The Lucky One (19 page)

“My destiny.”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. But you will know it when you get there.”

Thibault stayed quiet, wishing Victor had never brought up the subject. In the silence, Victor studied his friend.

“Maybe,” he speculated, “you’re meant to be together.”

“I’m not in love with her, Victor.”

“No?”

“No,” he said.

“And yet,” Victor observed, “you think about her often.”

To this, Thibault said nothing, for there was nothing he could say.

On Saturday morning, Thibault arrived early and went straight to work at the kennels, feeding, cleaning, and training as usual. While he worked, Ben played with Zeus until Elizabeth called him inside to get ready to go. She waved from her spot on the porch, but even from a distance, he could see she was distracted.

She had gone back inside by the time he took the dogs out; he usually walked them in groups of three, with Zeus trailing behind him. Away from the house, he would let the dogs off the leash, but they tended to follow behind him no matter what direction he headed. He liked to vary the route he took; the variety kept the dogs from wandering too far away. Like people, dogs got bored if they did the same thing every day. Usually, the walks lasted about thirty minutes per group. After the third group, he noticed that Elizabeth’s car was gone, and he assumed she’d gone to drop Ben off at his father’s.

He didn’t like Ben’s father, mostly because Ben and Elizabeth didn’t. The guy sounded like a piece of work, but it wasn’t his place to do much more than listen when she talked about him. He didn’t know enough to offer any advice, and even if he did, she wasn’t asking for any. In any event, it wasn’t his business.

But what was his business, then? Why was he here? Despite himself, his thoughts drifted back to his conversation with Victor, and he knew he was here because of what Victor had said to him that morning at the lake. And, of course, because of what happened later.

He forced the memory away. He wasn’t going to go there. Not again.

Calling to the dogs, Thibault turned and made for the kennels. After putting the dogs away, he went to explore the storage shed. When he turned on the light in the shed, he stared at the walls and shelves in amazement. Elizabeth’s grandfather didn’t have just a few tools—the place resembled a cluttered hardware store. He wandered inside, scanning the racks and sorting through the Snap-on tool cabinets and piles of items on the workbench. He eventually picked out a socket wrench set, a couple of adjustable and Allen wrenches, and a jack and carried them out to the truck. As Elizabeth had promised, the keys were under the mat. Thibault drove down the driveway, heading for the auto supply store he vaguely remembered seeing near downtown.

The parts were in stock—replacement pads, C-clamp, and some high-temp grease—and he was back at the house in less than half an hour. He put the jack in place and raised the car, then removed the first wheel. He retracted the piston with the C-clamp, removed the old pad, checked the rotors for damage, and reinstalled a new pad before replacing the wheel and repeating the process with the other wheels.

He was finishing the third brake pad when he heard Elizabeth pull up, rolling to a stop next to the old truck. He glanced over his shoulder just as she got out, realizing she’d been gone for hours.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Just about done.”

“Really?” She sounded amazed.

“It’s just brake pads. It’s not a big deal.”

“I’m sure that’s the same thing a surgeon would say. It’s just an appendix.”

“You want to learn?” Thibault asked, staring up at her figure silhouetted against the sky.

“How long does it take?”

“Not long.” He shrugged. “Ten minutes?”

“Really?” she repeated. “Okay. Just let me get the groceries inside.”

“Need help?”

“No, it’s just a couple of bags.”

He slipped the third wheel back on and finished tightening the lug nuts before moving to the final wheel. He loosened the nuts just as Elizabeth reached his side. When she squatted beside him, he could smell a hint of the coconut lotion she’d applied earlier that morning.

“First, you take the wheel off . . . ,” he began, and methodically walked her through the process, making sure she understood each step. When he lowered the jack and started to collect the tools, she shook her head.

“That seemed almost too easy. I think even I could do it.”

“Probably.”

“Then why do they charge so much?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m in the wrong line of work,” she said, rising and gathering her hair into a loose ponytail. “But thank you for taking care of it. I’ve wanted those fixed for a while now.”

“No problem.”

“Are you hungry? I picked up some fresh turkey for sandwiches. And some pickles.”

“That sounds delicious,” he said.

They had lunch on the back porch, overlooking the garden. Elizabeth still seemed distracted, but they chatted a little about what it was like to grow up in a small southern town, where everyone knew everything about everybody else. Some of the stories were amusing, but Thibault admitted that he preferred a more anonymous existence.

“Why am I not surprised?” she asked.

Afterward, Thibault went back to work while Elizabeth spent the afternoon cleaning the house. Unlike her grandfather, Thibault was able to pry open the office window that had been painted shut, though it turned out to be more difficult than fixing the brakes. Nor was it easy to open or close afterward, no matter how much sanding he did to smooth it. Then, he painted the trim.

After that, it was a normal workday. By the time he finished up his duties at the kennel, it was coming up on five, and though he could have easily left for the day, he didn’t. Instead, he began work on the files again, wanting to get a head start on what he knew would be a long day tomorrow. He settled in for the next couple of hours, making what he thought was headway—who could tell, though?—and didn’t hear Elizabeth approach. Instead, he noticed Zeus get to his feet and start toward the door.

“I’m surprised you’re still here,” she said from the doorway. “I saw the light on and thought you’d forgotten to turn it off.”

“I wouldn’t forget.”

She pointed to the stacks of files on the desk. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re doing that. Nana tried to talk me into organizing the files this summer, but I was extremely adept at putting her off.”

“Lucky me,” he drawled.

“No, lucky me. I almost feel guilty about it.”

“I’d almost believe you, except for that smirk. Have you heard from Ben or Nana?”

“Both,” she said. “Nana’s great, Ben is miserable. Not that he said as much. I could hear it in his voice.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it.

She offered a tense shrug before reaching for the door handle. She rotated it in both directions, seemingly interested in the mechanism. Finally, she let out a sigh. “Do you want to help me make some ice cream?”

“Excuse me?” He set down the file he’d been labeling.

“I love homemade ice cream. There’s nothing better when it’s hot, but it’s no fun to make if you can’t share it with someone.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever had homemade ice cream. . . .”

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing. You in?”

Her childlike enthusiasm was contagious. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed. “That sounds fun.”

“Let me run to the store and get what we need. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to buy some ice cream?”

Her eyes shone with delight. “But it’s not the same. You’ll see. I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?”

She was as good as her word. Thibault just had time to straighten up the desk and check on the dogs one last time before he heard her coming up the drive on her way back from the store. He met her as she was getting out of the car.

“Would you mind bringing in the bag of crushed ice?” she asked. “It’s in the backseat.”

He followed her into the kitchen with the bag of ice, and she motioned to the freezer as she set a quart of half-and-half on the counter.

“Can you get the ice-cream maker? It’s in the pantry. Top shelf on the left.”

Thibault emerged from the pantry with a crank-handled ice-cream maker that looked to be at least fifty years old. “Is this the one?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Does it still work?” he wondered aloud.

“Perfectly. Amazing, isn’t it? Nana got that as a gift for her wedding, but we still use it all the time. It makes delicious ice cream.”

He brought it over to the counter and stood beside her. “What can I do?”

“If you agree to crank, I’ll do the mixing.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

She dug out an electric mixer and a bowl, along with a measuring cup. From the spice cabinet, she chose sugar, flour, and vanilla extract. She added three cups of sugar and a cup of flour to the bowl and mixed it by hand, then put the bowl on the mixer. Next, she beat in three eggs, all the half-and-half, and three teaspoons of vanilla extract before turning on the mixer. Finally, she splashed in a bit of milk and poured the entire mixture into the cream can, put the can in the ice-cream maker, and surrounded it with crushed ice and rock salt.

“We’re ready,” she announced, handing it to him. She picked up the rest of the ice and the rock salt. “To the porch we go. You have to make it on the porch, or it isn’t the same.”

“Ah,” he said.

She took a seat beside him on the porch steps, sitting fractionally closer than she had the day before. Wedging the can between his feet, Thibault began to rotate the crank, surprised at how easily it turned.

“Thanks for doing this,” she said. “I really need the ice cream. It’s been one of those days.”

“Yeah?”

She turned toward him, a sly smile playing on her lips. “You’re very good at that.”

“What?”

“Saying, ‘Yeah?’ when someone makes a comment. It’s just enough to make someone keep talking without being too personal or prying.”

“Yeah?”

She giggled. “Yeah,” she mimicked. “But most people would have said something like, ‘What happened?’ Or, ‘Why?’”

“All right. What happened? Why was it one of those days?”

She gave a disgusted snort. “Oh, it’s just that Ben was really grumpy this morning while he was packing, and I ended up snapping at him to hurry up because he was taking so long. His dad usually doesn’t like it when he’s late, but today? Well, today, it was as if he’d forgotten that Ben was even coming. I must have knocked on the door for a couple of minutes before he eventually opened it, and I could tell he’d just gotten out of bed. Had I known he was sleeping in, I wouldn’t have been so hard on Ben, and I still feel guilty about it. And, of course, as I’m pulling away, I see Ben already hauling out the garbage because dear old Dad was too lazy to do it. And then, of course, I spent the whole day cleaning, which wasn’t so bad the first couple of hours. But by the end, I really needed ice cream.”

“Doesn’t sound like a relaxing Saturday.”

“It wasn’t,” she muttered, and he could tell she was debating whether to say more. There was something more, something else bothering her, and she drew a long breath before sighing. “It’s my brother’s birthday today,” she said, the faintest tremor in her voice. “That’s where I went today, after dropping Ben off. I brought flowers to the cemetery.”

Thibault felt a thickness in his throat as he remembered the photograph on the mantel. Though he’d suspected that her brother had been killed, it was the first time that either Nana or Elizabeth had confirmed it. He immediately understood why she hadn’t wanted to be alone tonight.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it.

“So am I,” she said. “You would have liked him. Everyone liked him.”

“I’m sure.”

She twisted her hands in her lap. “It slipped Nana’s mind. Of course, she remembered this afternoon and called to tell me how sorry she was that she couldn’t be here. She was practically in tears, but I told her it was okay. That it wasn’t a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. He was your brother and you miss him.”

A wistful smile flickered across her face, then faded away. “You remind me of him,” she offered, her voice soft. “Not so much in your appearance, but in your mannerisms. I noticed that the first time you walked in the office to apply for the job. It’s like you two were stamped out of the same mold. I guess it’s a marine thing, huh?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I’ve met all types.”

“I’ll bet.” She paused, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “Did you like it? Being in the marines?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not all the time?”

“No.”

“Drake loved it. Loved everything about it, in fact.” Though she seemed mesmerized by the movement of the crank, Thibault could tell she was lost in her memories. “I remember when the invasion began. With Camp Lejeune less than an hour away, it was big news. I was scared for him, especially when I heard talk about chemical weapons and suicide stands, but do you want to know what he was worried about? Before the invasion, I mean?”

“What?”

“A picture. A dumb old photograph. Can you believe that?”

The unexpected words made Thibault’s heart suddenly hammer in his chest, but he forced himself to appear calm.

“He took this picture of me when we first arrived at the fair that year,” she said, going on. “It was the last weekend we spent together before he joined, and after we made the usual rounds, we just kind of wandered off to be alone. I remember sitting with him near this giant pine tree and talking for hours as we watched the Ferris wheel. It was one of the big ones, all lit up, and we could hear kids oohing and aahing as it went round and round under this perfect summer sky. We talked about our mom and dad, and we wondered what they would have been like or whether they’d have gray hair or whether we would have stayed in Hampton or moved away, and I remember looking up at the sky. All of a sudden, this shooting star went by, and all I could think was that they were listening to us somehow.”

She paused, lost in the memory, before going on. “He had the picture laminated and kept it with him all through basic training. After he got to Iraq, he e-mailed me and told me that he’d lost it, and asked if I could send him another one. It seemed kind of crazy to me, but I wasn’t there, and I didn’t know what he was going through, so I said I’d send another one. But I didn’t get around to sending it right away. Don’t ask me why. It was like I had some sort of mental block against doing it. I mean, I’d put the disk into my purse, but every time I was near the drugstore, I’d just forget to get the photograph developed. And before I knew it, the invasion had started. I finally got around to sending it, but the letter was eventually returned to me unopened. Drake died in the first week of the invasion.”