Trust in Me (13 page)

“No.”

He’d leaned over and kissed a spot—there weren’t many—where there was no welt. “I’m so sorry. We’ll leave this crummy town. As soon as you graduate.

“Margo, are you all right?”

“Hmm?”

“You look like you’re somewhere else.”

I was
. Back in Glen Oaks.

Where Linc lived. Where she could never, ever live again.

o0o

HENRY Portman was a big, balding man who walked with a pronounced limp and always smelled a little like mothballs. A Vietnam vet, he was disabled in the war and lived on a pension from the government. Linc had recognized the emptiness of the older man’s life as soon as he took over the pastorship at Community Christian Church. When Henry had asked, in one of his rare verbal episodes, if he could volunteer as the custodian of the church—a position which they couldn’t afford to hire for pay—Linc was unable to turn him down. Even if it did mean cleaning up after Henry, or chasing around in his wake to repair damage.

Today, the poor man’s latest target had been the stove in the fellowship hall kitchen. Henry had tried to clean it with outdoor bug spray, mistaking the can for oven cleaner. As Linc stuck his head in the oven, he had to smile, though the sickeningly sweet smell assaulted him. “No internal damage, Henry. I’ll just scrub it with some bleach and maybe the smell will go away.”

Again Linc chuckled as he pictured Connie Smith’s horror when the Ladies Aid turned on the oven last night and the unmistakable smell of Zap ’em Bug Spray permeated the fellowship hall. She’d come screaming to Linc. They were still airing out the place.

Linc pulled himself from the oven and stood. Henry shrugged and gave him an
I’m sorry
look.

“Why don’t you go set up the chairs for the women’s group in the first Sunday School room? Six of them. And find the blackboard for me to use. I’ll have this done in no time.”

A squeeze on his shoulder made Linc’s heart lurch. So many lonely people in this world who needed to be needed. Henry left, and Linc began the messy task of cleaning out the oven. Like everything else around here, the stove was a relic. The kitchen was old, the fellowship hall was old and the church proper was old. The whole place would have been sold off long ago if Jeremiah Jordan hadn’t died and left in his will money earmarked to purchase the entire property, now held in trust for the congregation. If they’d had a mortgage to pay, the forty-family church would never have survived. Jeremiah’s bequest was the miracle God had planned for this tiny place.

While he scrubbed and rinsed, and scraped his knuckles on the wall of the oven, Linc’s mind drifted to Margo. It had been paradise having her home last weekend. She’d slept like a baby in his arms the night of the Council meeting, then come to him after spending the evenings with Beth or Annie. They’d shared pizza and beer late at night and long, involved discussions into the quiet hours of the morning. He ran on empty for days after she left, but the pure pleasure of her company had been worth it. She wouldn’t attend church on Sunday, of course, but she spent the whole afternoon with him before he dropped her off at the train station. Her hug had been warmer and longer than usual, and he could still summon the feeling of her strong arms around him and the sexy scent of her expensive perfume.

Maybe it was time for another talk with God.

I’m missing her something bad.

I know. It’s all part of the plan, son.

What, to torture your most avid servant?

You do look a little like a servant there.

Poor Henry.

Henry’s fine. Because of you.

It took him an hour to clean the oven, but talking with God made it go fast. When he was done, he glanced at the clock and realized he had just enough time to shower and change. Hurrying out of the kitchen, on impulse, he checked the meeting room for his group. Eight chairs were out. But they were in rows. He’d told Henry a million times he wanted them in a circle, to facilitate discussion. If Linc left the rows, the women would sit down before he got back and the discussion among them was already like pulling teeth. There was also a huge room divider set up in front. On it was a note in Henry’s scrawl, “No blackboard. Use this.”

By the time Linc rearranged the chairs and found the blackboard buried in a storage closet, he only had time to wash his hands and face and tuck in his shirt in the small men’s lay. He did, however, manage a short prayer that he’d be patient and insightful for these women who trusted him. At ten o’clock, five out of six of the women had arrived for their third meeting.

“Pardon my appearance, ladies, but the stove took precedence over the shower today.” He gave them a self-effacing grin.

They smiled back and Linc was warmed by their affection. He’d never had motherly approval in his life, and wondered if he was searching for it here. “Shall we start with a prayer?”

Once seated, they bowed their heads and Linc gave a short prayer. Then he said, “This is our third meeting. Today we’re going to brainstorm some topics for future discussion and set an agenda of sorts. Anyone want to write?”

Barb Mandarin, a slim woman in her mid-forties with lively green eyes, turned to Anita Camp. The town’s hairdresser sported flamboyant silky leggings and a long hot pink shirt. It clashed vividly with her red hair. “Anita, you do it,” Barb said. “You’re good in front of people.” The implication was that none of the others were. Except for Anita, the self-esteem quotient in this room hovered near zero.

“Sure thing.” Anita stood and sashayed over to the board. “All set, kemosabe,” she said to Linc.

He smiled. “Who would like to go first?”

Absolute quiet. Linc waited.

Anita rolled her eyes and tapped her foot, encased in three-inch mules. “Geez, Louise, do I have to start off everything?”

Joanie Jorgensen, who worked part-time at the bakery, raised her chin. “No, I’ll start. I’d like to talk about loneliness.” Her husband, Woody, had died two years ago in a fluke car accident, and since her kids were grown, she’d floundered. Plain but handsome, she dressed like Linc’s kindergarten teacher in prim dresses and thick-soled shoes.

Again, silence.

Linc finally spoke. “I have an idea to keep the discussion going. How about whoever speaks gets to pick the next person to suggest a topic?” He reached over and snagged the eraser from the board. Gently he tossed it to Joanie, who giggled when she caught it. “Shoot this to whomever you choose to go next.”

Finally one woman nodded, another agreed and at last he had consensus. Primly, Joanie threw the eraser to Patricia O’Brien, mother of six. She said, “Raising kids?” Plump, with a pretty heart-shaped face and warm blue eyes, Linc suspected she really wanted to talk about not having any more children. Demurely, she tossed the eraser to Anita, who caught it deftly.

“Growing old?” Anita put on the board. She fluffed her hair. “Not that it’s happening to me, mind you.” That brought smiles. At forty-something, Anita was pretty in a flashy way. Margo teased Linc that the divorcée was sweet on him.

Ona James, who helped her husband out at the hardware store he owned, and who had one of the two supportive spouses of this group, took the eraser from Anita and said, “Having money. Of your own.” Hmm, Linc hadn’t guessed that might be an issue with her. He watched the somewhat plain forty-year-old flush at his concerned look.

“How about getting along at work?” Barb said when she held the eraser. Again Linc was surprised. He thought she liked her part-time job at the drugstore. Her husband, friends with Ian James, also was supportive of this group, and seemingly of her. “Anything else?” Linc asked.

No response. Finally he said, “I guess that’s enough for now. Why don’t we—”

He heard the door to the fellowship hall open. From the entryway emerged a petite woman with brown hair scrubbed back in a tight knot; she wore an anxious look on her face.

Rosa DeMartino. “Sorry I’m late.” Unbuttoning a worn coat, she crossed shyly to the group.

“It’s fine, Rosa.” Linc gave her a warm smile. “We’re just glad you’re here.”

“Whatsamatter, sweetie. Oversleep?” Anita teased.

Everyone chuckled; they knew Rosa was the hardest worker in Glen Oaks, cleaning houses and doing other odd jobs around town when her husband was out of work. In his employed time, he wouldn’t
let
her work. Shaking her head, Rosa looked much older than her thirty-eight years.

Linc remained silent, trying not to be judgmental. But he could guess why she was late. Sam probably just left for the racetrack, which would be opening soon, and had recently called back its workers.

“It doesn’t matter, Rosa,” Linc said softly. “We’re just brainstorming ideas for the group to discuss in the future. Grab some coffee, take a look at what’s on the board and see if you have anything to add.”

Forgoing the coffee, she dropped down into a chair next to Barb and stared at the board. After a long look, she said, “Freedom. I’d like to talk about having some freedom.”

Chapter 7

ROLLING up the sleeves of his denim shirt, Tucker loped down the stairs to the first floor of Doc’s cottage, into the living room, which overlooked Glenora Lake.

And faced a ghost. Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt which read,
In my world you don’t exist
, was the son who resembled his father so much it was hard to believe the boy wasn’t a figment of Tucker’s imagination. Had Doc forgotten to tell him something? Tucker was going to wring the old buzzard’s neck.

The kid stood by the trophies lining the bookcases on the side walls. Seething all over again at the display of their success—Tucker wanted no part of it—he watched Ron inspect him.

Tucker finally nodded. “Ron.”

Ron nodded back.

Doc, who was fishing something out of the drawer underneath the bookcases, straightened. “Here they are.”

Calling himself a mealy-mouthed coward, Tucker made a quick loop to the left and fled to the kitchen, pretending he wanted something to drink; he was really giving himself time to deal with the all-too-real specter in the living room.

He hadn’t expected this kind of...unease at confronting Ron Donovan, Tucker thought as he popped open a can of soda. The cold liquid wet his suddenly parched throat. The first few times he’d seen the kid, his discomfort had snuck up on him like a rookie driver trying to pass, but after a few contacts, he thought he’d be used to Ron’s resemblance to the man he’d killed.

Must be this was going to be his purgatory. Every one of those fifteen hours per week of community service would likely burn the fires of the damned right through Tucker’s soul.

Quit cowerin’ out here
, he told himself disgustedly.
Face your sins.

Crunching the aluminum can in his hand, he tossed it in the trash and ambled out into the living room, as if he were strollin’ along the riverbank. Doc had what
Sports Illustrated
called their “spectacular new car” plans spread out on the coffee table, and the kid sat next to him on the couch. Tucker circled around and stood behind them; he tried to concentrate on the blueprints, but instead, he stared down at the dark head and the gray one bent close together. Beth Donovan’s hair was lighter than Ron’s, more chestnut than raven. It curled real soft and pretty around her face and shoulders.

“See here,” Doc said in his perennially gruff voice. “This is one of the modifications we’re makin’.”

The kid nodded; he was either clueless about cars or he didn’t give a shit about Doc’s landmark designs.

Your son wants to race?

Yes, of course.

“Quaid thinks we can go even bigger and still fit the template. We’ll get thirty to forty more miles a gallon outta it.”

Ron said, “I seen Honda’s new design. They aren’t trying that.”

“Honda don’t know shit about stock-car design. When they entered the last...”

Tucker let Doc’s words fade off. He crossed to the triple glass doors of the room and stared out at the lake. March had stirred up the frigid water so it crashed on the shore like an angry fist pounding out its frustrations. Countless whitecaps were visible—big teeth that ate up the surface of the lake.

“Whatdaya think, Tuck?”

“Sorry, I wasn’t listenin’.”

“Young Ronny here agrees with you about the gas lines.”

“I didn’t...” The kid started to protest. He sounded horrified, as if agreeing with Tucker was tantamount to making a pact with the devil. Christ, was the entire six months going to be like this?

“You’re outvoted then, old man.”

Doc grumbled and handed the boy the plans. “Take these home and study them. Be familiar with the whole set by the next time you come.”

From his vantage point, Tucker could see Ron’s face lit with pleasure. “Is the car here yet?”

“In production as we speak,” Doc told him. “The chassis and roll cage’ll be delivered next week. We start puttin’ on the shocks, suspension, springs and wheels soon as we get it.”

Trying to join in, Tucker said, “Then it’s called a rolling chassis.”

Ron raised disgusted eyes to him. “I know that. I been around tracks all my life.”

Again Tucker turned his back on them. Danny Donovan’s apparition was bitter and surly and, fuck it, Tucker didn’t want to deal with him. He’d told Doc so.

Tough shit
, the old man had said.
It’s a done deal.

Doc was talking to him. “Tucker, we gotta set up this week’s schedule.”

Circling around, Tucker said glibly, “I’m not goin’ to any cotillions, Doc. My time is yours. Schedule the kid any time you want.” And just maybe Tucker could arrange to be absent.

Ron’s voice was noticeably less surly when he said, “I, um, go to jail on Saturday.”

“Hrrmph.” Doc studied the calendar. “How ’bout after school on Monday, Wednesday and Friday? We can get the hours in then.”

Ron nodded, mumbled something about meeting with a counselor first, then set times with Doc.

Tucker thought about Beth Donovan, and how she needed her son to work at the diner. In a moment of whimsy, he wondered if maybe he and the kid could trade places. Oh, sure, all he needed was to see those sad brown eyes full of forgiveness three times a week. It was hard enough trying to avoid her when she’d dropped Ron off here. Damn fool kid had a DUI and couldn’t drive for a while.