The Next Always (34 page)

HE DIDN’T BUY
her flowers—that was too much of a capitulation to Ryder. He bought her a plant. A plant wasn’t flowers, even if it
had
flowers.

He filled out a little card.

Not an apology, he decided. A statement and a token. No point in anybody being pissed off when they’d both done what needed to be done.

He dropped it off at the bookstore, mostly he admitted, so his brothers wouldn’t see it and lord it over him.

“Clare’s in the back with a customer,” Cassie told him. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“No, I’m just dropping this off for her. I’ve got to get to work.”

“It’s so pretty. I love African violets. What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing.”

“Just because? Those are the best.”

“Yeah, well. Gotta go.”

He escaped.

When he got back up to the third floor, Ryder had nearly finished. It seemed just a little surreal, Beckett realized, like he’d passed through a small time warp.

“So?”

“He was his usual self. An asshole. But he got the message.”

“Good, now maybe we can concentrate on work.”

“Suits me.”

They worked through the morning, into the afternoon. He paused in his install of rods and hooks in the bedroom closets of the apartment when he heard female voices.

When he stuck his head out he saw Hope, Avery, and Clare huddled in the kitchen.

“Ladies.”

“Owen said you’d probably be finished with the cabinets.” Hope closed the cabinet door she’d poked in. “They look nice.”

“We’re going to drag her down to look at furniture later,” Avery told him, “but we’ve heard the tile work up in The Penthouse looks great so far. We want to go see.”

“They’re working in there now, but you can go up, take a look.”

“Go ahead.” Clare kept her eyes on Beckett’s. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

Avery gave Beckett a quick thumbs-up behind Clare’s back, then pulled Hope out of the apartment.

“You and Avery are okay?”

“She and Hope ganged up on me. We were worried about you, and so on. It’s hard to argue with sincerity and real concern. I gave it a pretty good shot, like I did with you.”

“What did the cops say?”

“I talked to Charlie Reeder. He didn’t like it any more than you did. Still, there’s not a lot they can do. As I said, I let him in, he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t threaten me. But they have it on record, and if he comes back, I can take out a restraining order. They’ll talk to him if it comes to that. Actually, I have a feeling Charlie’s going to talk to him anyway. I seem to have that effect on people.”

“Sincere and real concern.”

“Mmm-hmm. And you talked to Sam.”

“We had a conversation, and he knows the way things are. It was quick, simple, to the point.”

“And bloodless, according to the African violet.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you buy me the plant to soften me up?”

Setting the tool down, he crossed to her. “I bought it so you’d understand we don’t have anything to fight about.”

“It worked. So did something you said when you were lecturing me.”

“I wasn’t . . . maybe I was.”

“You said couples tell each other their problems. I had to ask myself if I’ve just forgotten how to be a couple. But the fact is, Clint was gone for half our marriage. And when he was gone, he was dealing with life and death, every single day. I got out of the habit of telling him about problems on the homefront. Why should he worry, with all he dealt with, if one of the kids had a fever, or if the toilet overflowed or the roof sprang a leak?”

“You got used to running things on your own.”

“What could he do about it when he’s in Iraq and the car breaks down in Kansas?”

Beckett gave her a long, quiet look. “I’m not in Iraq.”

“No, and it has to be said, I’m not in Kansas anymore.” She lifted her hands, then let them fall. “It’s not that I’ve forgotten how to be a couple, but that my experience in being part of one is different from yours. Maybe from most people’s. And I’ve been on my own a long time.”

“Now you’re not. I’m not fighting a war, and I’m right here.” Needed to be here, he realized, with her. “You know, I figure you know how to use a plunger if your toilet overflows.”

She laughed a little. “Believe me.”

He cupped her chin in his hand. “But if you’ve got a leaky roof, you don’t have to be the one climbing up the ladder to patch it.”

“So, there are degrees. It might take some time for me to figure them out.”

“We’ve got time. It sounds like we’re okay, too.”

“Pretty close to it anyway. Fights always keep me on edge for a while. Why don’t you come to dinner tonight—my version of a pretty houseplant.”

“I’d like that.”

He laid his hands on her shoulders. “I’m going to be there for you. I hope if you don’t want to expect it, you can accept it. Maybe even like it a little.”

“I like you.” She rose up to kiss him. “I like us.”

“That’s a good start.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” She kissed him again. “Thanks for the real and sincere concern, and the plant.”

“You’re welcome.”

He went back to finish the closets, smiled a little when he smelled honeysuckle.

“You come in here, too? I don’t mind the company. Not now anyway. Things feel right again.”

His mood smooth now, he gave the closet rod a shake to check its stability. “Good and right,” he decided.

HIS MOOD CONTINUED
smooth through the work, through a post-work meeting where his mother popped in with Carolee to check out the progress of tile and paint. It gave him a lift to hear their voices echoing through the building as they moved from room to room.

He had just enough time to run home, shower off the day before driving down to Clare’s.

It was hard to beat three boys eager to play, a pretty woman fixing you a hot meal. And he thought as he drove home that night, when you added some time with that pretty woman after the kids were bunked down for the night it equaled a damn perfect way to end the day.

They’d navigated the bumps, he decided, and he realized they’d learned things about each other—maybe things neither of them had considered.

She wasn’t the carefree girl she’d been when he’d taken that first fall back in high school. He’d known that, of course, how could she be? But, he understood now as he climbed the stairs to his apartment, getting to know—really know—who that girl had become made this—he supposed he could call it his second fall—a lot deeper.

At sixteen, he’d known the heartache of being in love with Clare Murphy, a girl who belonged to someone else, who looked at him as no more than the most casual of friends. He’d experienced the confusion of feelings for the young widow who’d returned home with two little boys and another growing inside her. Feelings he couldn’t articulate in anything but friendship, something she’d accepted and returned.

And now, he was discovering the joys and frustrations of tripping past those careful, safe feelings, past the simple wanting and into that same bright blast he’d felt as a teenager.

It was odd, he thought, that those feelings could endure more than a decade. Feelings that had been neglected, ignored, suppressed. He supposed the foundation of those feelings had always been in place, maybe waiting. No matter how both of them had changed, evolved, restructured their lives, at the base they remained who they were.

He stood for a while, looking through his window toward the inn. Enduring, he thought. Some things were meant to. They needed care, understanding, respect, and a hell of a lot of work. Whatever changes came, the heart endured.

He went to bed eager to work on those changes—at the inn, with Clare and her boys—and to see what came.

And woke in the same smooth and optimistic mood. Right up until he carried his second cup of coffee outside to the parking lot behind his apartment and saw the four slashed tires on his truck and the vicious gouges running down the driver’s side.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BECKETT STOOD WITH HIS BROTHERS IN THE BRISK
autumn breeze, studying the damage.

“That’s not just for the hell of it,” Ryder observed. “That’s pissed-off personal and to the extreme.”

“I got that.” Beckett kicked one of his ruined tires. “I got that loud and clear.”

“Then you’ve got who.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a pretty simple dot to connect. I should’ve smashed the son of a bitch’s face in, right there in his office. Fucking coward. He had to sneak in here in the middle of the night to do this. And this? It’s goddamn high school, isn’t it? Keying the truck, slashing the tires.”

“Some people don’t grow up,” Owen observed, “don’t evolve. I’d say he’s one of them.” A quiet, simmering fury heated his voice. “He can’t face you on an adult level, so he comes along and fucks up your truck. Classic payback method for the tiny-dick type.”

“Thank you, Dr. Freud,” Beckett muttered.

“I’m just saying. And I’m saying we may know who did it, but unless somebody saw him . . . Shit, Beck, it sucks. You could go smash his face in now.”

“That gets my vote,” Ryder said.

“But the same things apply as they did before. You’d get busted for assault, and his face would heal.”

They looked over, turned as the town deputy pulled in. Owen laid a hand on Beckett’s shoulder. “Let’s see what Charlie has to say.”

“That’s a crappy way to start the day.” Charlie Reeder, tall and lean as the beanpole who’d starred on the varsity basketball team, slid out of the car. He walked over, stuck his hands in his pockets. “Hell, Beck, that’s a damn shame.”

“Is that the official Boonsboro Police Department statement?”

Charlie huffed out a breath. “That’s a personal note, and I’ll add it’s a pisser. I’ll write it up. You’ve got insurance, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Frowning, Charlie walked around the truck, noted the second set of gouges on the passenger side. “You’re going to want to get that claim in, get somebody out here to look at it. I’m going to take pictures for our file on it. What time did you park it here?”

“About ten I guess.”

“Vesta’s open another hour after that.” The deputy scratched the back of his neck as he walked around to join the brothers. “Did you see anybody in the lot?”

“Some cars, no people. Ah, Dave Metzner’s car—yeah, pretty sure on that. He’d be working till closing.”

“I’ll talk to him, anybody else who was working and would’ve come out this way. What time did you find it like this?”

“About quarter to seven.”

“Okay. The Creamery would be closing by the time you got home.” He glanced over at the ice cream shop. “It’s more likely this happened later, but I’ll check there. I’ll talk to the people in the apartments with a view of the lot, see if they saw anything, anyone. We might get lucky.”

“We all know who did it, Charlie.” Ryder spoke up. “Just about everybody in town knows Beck’s truck, knows where he parks it every damn night. And there’s only one person he’s had any trouble with.”

“So you think Freemont did this because you’re going out with Clare?”

“That and the fact I went to his office to see him yesterday morning, told him to steer clear.”

Charlie huffed out another breath. “What did you want to go and do that for?”

“Somebody hassles Charlene, scares her, puts his hands on her, what are you going to do?”

“Same damn thing.” Charlie put his hands on his bony hips. “Maybe I agree with you. It could’ve been kids, could’ve just been some drunk asshole, but nobody else reported anything like this. So it reads you were a specific target. Off the record, yeah, it looks like Sam dickhead Freemont’s style to me. But unless somebody saw him, proving it’s pretty damn slim.”

“Maybe he left fingerprints.”