The Lucky One (9 page)

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. He’s shooting pool in the back. But listen. I wanted to tell you he’s got a picture of your ex-wife.”

Caught off guard, Clayton tried to sound nonchalant. “So?” he said.

“I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Why would I give a holy crap about that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t. Holler.”

He hung up the phone, thinking the guy must have potato salad where his brains should be, and ran an appraising gaze over the kitchen. Clean as could be. Kid did a great job, as usual. He almost shouted that out from where he stood, but instead, as he caught sight of Ben, he couldn’t help but notice again how small his son was. Granted, a big chunk of that might be genetics, early or late growth spurts, and all that, but another part came from general health. It was common sense. Eat right, exercise, get plenty of rest. The basics; things everyone’s mother told their kids. And mothers were right. If you didn’t eat enough, you couldn’t grow. If you didn’t exercise enough, your muscles stagnated. And when do you think a person grew? Night. When the body regenerated. When people dreamed.

He often wondered whether Ben got enough sleep at his mom’s. Clayton knew Ben ate—he’d finished his burger and fries—and he knew the kid was active, so maybe lack of sleep was keeping him small. Kid didn’t want to end up short, did he? Of course not. And besides, Clayton wanted a bit of alone time. Wanted to fantasize about what he was going to do to Thigh-bolt the next time he saw him.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, Ben. It’s getting kind of late, don’t you think?”

6

Thibault

O
n his way home from the pool hall, Thibault remembered his second tour in Iraq.

It went like this: Fallujah, spring 2004. The First, Fifth, among other units, was ordered in to pacify the escalating violence since the fall of Baghdad the year before. Civilians knew what to expect and began to flee the city, choking the highways. Maybe a third of the city evacuated within a day. Air strikes were called in, then the marines. They moved block by block, house by house, room by room, in some of the most intense fighting since the opening days of the invasion. In three days, they controlled a quarter of the city, but the growing number of civilian deaths prompted a cease-fire. A decision was made to abandon the operation, and most of the forces withdrew, including Thibault’s company.

But not all of his company withdrew.

On the second day of operations, at the southern, industrial end of town, Thibault and his platoon were ordered to investigate a building rumored to hold a cache of weapons. The particular building hadn’t been pinpointed however; it could be any one of a dozen dilapidated structures clustered near an abandoned gas station, forming a rough semicircle. Thibault and his platoon moved in, toward the buildings, giving the gas station a wide berth. Half went right, half went left. All was quiet, and then it wasn’t. The gas station suddenly exploded. Flames leapt toward the sky, the explosion knocking half of the men to the ground, shattering eardrums. Thibault was dazed; his peripheral vision had gone black, and everything else was blurry. All at once, a hail of fire poured from the windows and rooftops above them and from behind the burned-out remains of automobiles in the streets.

Thibault found himself on the ground beside Victor. Two of the others in his platoon, Matt and Kevin—Mad Dog and K-Man, respectively—were with them, and the training of the corps kicked in. The brotherhood kicked in. Despite the onslaught, despite his fear, despite an almost certain death, Victor reached for his rifle and rose to one knee, zeroing in on the enemy. He fired, then fired again, his movements calm and focused, steady. Mad Dog reached for his rifle and did the same. One by one they rose; one by one fire teams were formed.
Fire. Cover. Move.
Except they couldn’t move. There was noplace to go. One marine toppled, then another. Then a third and a fourth.

By the time reinforcements arrived, it was almost too late. Mad Dog had been shot in the femoral artery; despite having a tourniquet, he’d bled to death within minutes. Kevin was shot in the head and died instantly. Ten others were wounded. Only a few emerged unscathed: Thibault and Victor were among them.

In the pool hall, one of the young men he’d spoken with reminded him of Mad Dog. They could have been brothers—same height and weight, same hair, same manner of speaking—and there had been an instant there where he’d wondered whether they were brothers before telling himself that it simply wasn’t possible.

He’d known the chance he was taking with his plan. In small towns, strangers are always suspect, and toward the end of the evening, he’d seen the skinny guy with bad skin make a call from the pay phone near the bathroom, eyeing Thibault nervously as he did so. He’d been jumpy before the call as well, and Thibault assumed the call had been either to the woman in the photograph or to someone close to her. Those suspicions were confirmed when Thibault had left. Predictably, the man had followed him to the door to see which way he was walking, which was why Thibault had headed in the opposite direction before doubling back.

When he’d arrived at the run-down pool hall, he’d bypassed the bar and made straight for the pool tables. He quickly identified the guys in the appropriate age group, most of whom seemed to be single. He asked to join in and put up with the requisite grumbling. Made nice, bought a few rounds of beers while losing a few games at pool, and sure enough, they began to loosen up. Casually, he asked about the social life in town. He missed the necessary shots. He congratulated them when they made a shot.

Eventually, they started asking about him. Where was he from? What was he doing here? He hemmed and hawed, mumbling something about a girl, and changed the subject. He fed their curiosity. He bought more beers, and when they asked again, he reluctantly shared his story: that he’d gone to the fair with a friend a few years back and met a girl. They’d hit it off. He went on and on about how great she was and how she’d told him to look her up if he ever came to town again. And he wanted to, but damned if he could remember her name.

You don’t remember her name? they asked.
No,
he answered.
I’ve never been good with names. I got hit in the head with a baseball when I was a kid, and my memory doesn’t work so good.
He shrugged, knowing they would laugh, and they did.
I got a photo, though,
he added, making it sound like an afterthought.

Do you have it with you?
Yeah. I think I do.

He rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the photo. The men gathered around. A moment later, one of them began shaking his head. You’re out of luck, he said. She’s off-limits.
She’s married?
No, but let’s just say she doesn’t date. Her ex wouldn’t like it, and trust me, you don’t want to mess with him.

Thibault swallowed.
Who is she?

Beth Green, they said. She’s a teacher at Hampton Elementary and lives with her grandma in the house at Sunshine Kennels.

Beth Green. Or, more accurately, Thibault thought, Elizabeth Green.

E.

It was while they were talking that Thibault realized one of the people he’d shown the picture to had slipped away.
I guess I’m out of luck, then,
Thibault said, taking back the photo.

He stayed for another half hour to cover his tracks. He made more small talk. He watched the stranger with the bad skin make the phone call and saw the disappointment in his reaction. Like a kid who got in trouble for tattling. Good. Still, Thibault had the feeling he’d see the stranger again. He bought more beers and lost more games, glancing occasionally at the door to see if anyone arrived. No one did. In time, he held up his hands and said he was out of money. He was going to hit the road. It had cost him a little more than a hundred dollars. They assured him he was welcome to join them anytime.

He barely heard them. Instead, all he could think was that he now had a name to go with the face, and that the next step was to meet her.

7

Beth

S
unday.

After church, it was supposed to be a day of rest, when she could recover and recharge for the coming week. The day she was supposed to spend with her family, cooking stew in the kitchen and taking relaxing walks along the river. Maybe even cuddle up with a good book while she sipped a glass of wine, or soak in a warm bubble bath.

What she didn’t want to do was spend the day scooping dog poop off the grassy area where the dogs trained, or clean the kennels, or train twelve dogs one right after the next, or sit in a sweltering office waiting for people to come pick up the family pets that were relaxing in cool, air-conditioned kennels. Which, of course, was exactly what she’d been doing since she’d gotten back from church earlier that morning.

Two dogs had already been picked up, but four more were scheduled for pickup sometime today. Nana had been kind enough to lay out the files for her before she retreated to the house to watch the game. The Atlanta Braves were playing the Mets, and not only did Nana love the Atlanta Braves with a feverish passion that struck Beth as ridiculous, but she loved any and all memorabilia associated with the team. Which explained, of course, the Atlanta Braves coffee cups stacked near the snack counter, the Atlanta Braves pennants on the walls, the Atlanta Braves desk calendar, and the Atlanta Braves lamp near the window.

Even with the door open, the air in the office was stifling. It was one of those hot, humid summer days great for swimming in the river but unfit for anything else. Her shirt was soaked with perspiration, and because she was wearing shorts, her legs kept sticking to the vinyl chair she sat in. Every time she moved her legs, she was rewarded with a sort of sticky sound, like peeling tape from a cardboard box, which was just plain gross.

While Nana considered it imperative to keep the dogs cool, she’d never bothered to add cooling ducts that led to the office. “If you’re hot, just prop the door to the kennels open,” she’d always said, ignoring the fact that while she didn’t mind the endless barking, most normal people did. And today there were a couple of little yappers in there: a pair of Jack Russell terriers that hadn’t stopped barking since Beth had arrived. Beth assumed they’d barked nearly all night, since most of the other dogs seemed grumpy as well. Every minute or so, other dogs joined in an angry chorus, the sounds rising in pitch and intensity, as if every dog’s sole desire was to voice its displeasure more loudly than the next. Which meant there wasn’t a chance on earth that she was going to open the door to cool off the office.

She toyed with the idea of going up to the house to fetch another glass of ice water, but she had the funny feeling that as soon as she left the office, the owners who’d dropped off their cocker spaniel for obedience training would show up. They’d called half an hour ago, telling her that they were on their way—“We’ll be there in ten minutes!”—and they were the kind of people who would be upset if their cocker spaniel had to sit in a kennel for a minute longer than she had to, especially after spending two weeks away from home.

But were they here yet? Of course not.

It would have been so much easier if Ben were around. She’d seen him in church that morning with his father, and he’d looked as glum as she’d expected. As always, it hadn’t been a lot of fun for him. He’d called before going to bed last night and told her that Keith had spent a good chunk of the evening sitting alone on the porch outside while Ben cleaned the kitchen. What, she wondered, was that about? Why couldn’t he just enjoy the fact that his son was there? Or simply sit and talk with him? Ben was just about the easiest kid to get along with, and she wasn’t saying that because she was biased. Well, okay, she admitted, maybe she was
a little
biased, but as a teacher, she’d spent time with lots of different kids and she knew what she was talking about. Ben was smart. Ben had a zany sense of humor. Ben was naturally kind. Ben was polite. Ben was great, and it made her crazy to realize that Keith was too dumb to see it.

She really wished she were inside the house doing . . . something. Anything. Even doing laundry was more exciting than sitting out here. Out here, she had way too much time to think. Not only about Ben, but about Nana, too. And about whether she would teach this year. And even the sad state of her love life, which never failed to depress her. It would be wonderful, she thought, to meet someone special, someone to laugh with, someone who would love Ben as much as she did. Or even to meet a man with whom she could go to dinner and a movie. A normal man, like someone who remembered to put his napkin in his lap in a restaurant and opened a door for her now and then. That wasn’t so unreasonable, was it? She hadn’t been lying to Melody when she’d said her choices in town were slim, and she’d be the first to admit that she was picky, but aside from the short time with Adam, she’d spent every other weekend at home this past year. Forty-nine out of fifty-two weekends. She wasn’t
that
picky, that’s for sure. The simple fact was that Adam had been the only one who’d asked her out, and for a reason she still didn’t understand, he’d suddenly stopped calling. Which pretty much summed up the story of her dating life the last few years.

But no big deal, right? She’d survived without a relationship this long, and she’d soldier on. Besides, most of the time it didn’t bother her. If it hadn’t been such a miserably hot day, she doubted it would bother her now. Which meant she definitely had to cool off. Otherwise she’d probably start thinking about the past, and she definitely didn’t want to go there. Fingering her empty glass, she decided to get that ice water. And while she was at it, a small towel to sit on.

As she rose from her seat, she peeked down the empty gravel drive, then she scribbled a note saying she’d be back in ten minutes and tacked it to the front door of the office. Outside, the sun pressed down hard, driving her toward the shade offered by the ancient magnolia and guiding her to the gravel path that led toward the house she’d grown up in. Built around 1920, it resembled a broad, low-country farmhouse, banded by a large porch and sporting carved molding in the eaves. The backyard, hidden from the kennel and office by towering hedges, was shaded by giant oaks and graced with a series of decks that made eating outside a pleasure. The place must have been magnificent long ago, but like so many rural homes around Hampton, time and the elements had conspired against it. These days the porch sagged, the floors squeaked, and when the wind was strong enough, papers would blow off the counters even when the windows were closed. Inside, it was pretty much the same story: great bones, but the place needed modern updates, especially in the kitchen and bathrooms. Nana knew it and mentioned doing something about it every now and then, but they were projects that always got put on the back burner. Besides, Beth had to admit that the place still had unique appeal. Not only the backyard—which was truly an oasis—but inside as well. For years, Nana had frequented antiques shops, and she favored anything French from the nineteenth century. She also spent good chunks of her weekends at garage sales, rummaging through old paintings. She had a knack for paintings in general and had developed some good friendships with a number of gallery owners throughout the South. The paintings hung on nearly every wall in the house. On a lark, Beth had once Googled a couple of the artists’ names and learned that other works by those artists hung in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City and the Huntington Library in San Marino, California. When she mentioned what she’d learned, Nana had winked and said, “It’s like sipping champagne, ain’t it?” Nana’s nutty turns of phrase often disguised her razor sharp instincts.