That friends with benefits thing was looking better all the time.
18
Beth
I take it you had a good time," Nana drawled.
It was Sunday morning, and Beth had just stumbled down to the kitchen table. Ben was still sleeping upstairs.
"We did," she said, yawning.
"And?"
"And . . . nothing."
"You got in kind of late, considering you did nothing."
"It wasn't that late. See? I'm up bright and early." She poked her head into the refrigerator, then closed the door without removing anything. "That would be impossible if I got in too late. And why are you so curious?"
"I just want to know if I'll still have an employee on Monday." Nana poured herself a cup of coffee and collapsed into a chair at the table.
"I don't see why you wouldn't."
"So it went well?"
This time, Beth let the question hang for a moment as she remembered the evening. Stirring her coffee, she felt happier than she had in a long time. "Yeah," she offered. "It went well."
During the next few days, Beth spent as much time with Logan as she could, without making it seem too obvious to Ben. She wasn't sure why that felt important. It did seem consistent with the kind of advice family counselors would offer about the realities of dating when children were involved. But deep down, she knew that wasn't the entire reason. There was just something exciting about maintaining the pretense that nothing had changed between them; it gave the relationship an illicit feeling, almost like an affair.
It didn't fool Nana, of course. Every now and then while Beth and Logan were engaged in keeping up their elaborate facade, Nana would mutter something nonsensical like "camels in the Sahara" or "it's like hair and slippers." Later, with Logan, Beth would try to make sense of her mutterings. The first seemed to imply they were meant to be together; the second took a little longer to figure out, and she was stumped until Logan shrugged and suggested, "Maybe it has something to do with 'Rapunzel' and 'Cinderella'?"
Fairy tales. But good ones, with happily-ever-after endings. Nana being sweet without revealing herself as a softie.
Those stolen moments when they were alone had an almost dreamlike intensity. Beth was hyperattuned to his every movement and gesture, tantalized by the quiet way he'd take her hand as they trailed behind Ben on their evening walks, then release it as soon as Ben rounded into view again. Logan had a sixth sense about how far away Ben had wandered--a skill developed, she guessed, in the military--and she was grateful that her desire to fly under the radar for now didn't bother him in the slightest.
To her relief, Logan continued to treat Ben exactly as he had before. On Monday, he showed up with a small bow-and-arrow set he'd picked up at the sporting goods store. He and Ben spent an hour shooting at targets, time that was mainly used searching for wayward shots that ended up in prickly holly bushes or snagged in tree branches, leaving them both with scratches up to their elbows. After dinner, they ended up playing chess in the living room while she and Nana cleaned up the kitchen. As she dried the dishes, she concluded that if for no other reason, she could love Logan forever simply because of the way he treated her son.
Despite maintaining a low profile, they still found excuses to be alone together. On Tuesday, when she got home from school, she noticed that with Nana's permission, he'd installed a porch swing so "we don't have to sit on the steps." While Ben was at his music lesson, she reveled in the slow, steady motion of the swing as she sat beside him. On Wednesday, she rode with him to town to pick up another load of dog food. Everyday activities, but simply being alone with him was enough. Sometimes when they were in the truck together, he'd put his arm around her and she'd lean into him, savoring how good it felt.
She thought about him while she worked, imagining what he was doing or wondering what he and Nana were talking about. She pictured the way his shirt would tack against his skin with perspiration or his forearms would flex as he trained the dogs. On Thursday morning, as Logan and Zeus walked up the drive to begin work, she turned from the window in the kitchen. Nana was at the table, slowly working her way into her rubber boots, a challenge made more difficult by the weakness in her arm. Beth cleared her throat.
"Is it okay if Logan takes the day off?" she asked.
Nana didn't bother to hide the smirk on her face. "Why?"
"I want to get away with him today. Just the two of us."
"What about school?"
She was already dressed, her own lunch packed. "I'm thinking about calling in sick."
"Ah," Nana said.
"I love him, Nana," she blurted.
Nana shook her head, but her eyes glittered. "I was wondering when you'd just come right out and say it, instead of making me come up with those silly riddles."
"Sorry."
Nana stood and stomped a couple of times, making sure the boots were snug. A thin layer of dirt collected on the floor. "I suppose I could handle things today. Probably be good for me. I've been watching too much television anyway."
Beth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thank you."
"My pleasure. Just don't make a habit of it. He's the best employee we've ever had."
They spent the afternoon wrapped in each other's arms, making love over and over, and when it was finally time for her to return home--she wanted to be around when Ben got home from school--she was certain that Logan loved her as much as she loved him and that he, too, was beginning to imagine spending the rest of their lives together.
The only thing that marred her perfect happiness was the sense she had that something was bothering him. It wasn't her--she was sure of that. Nor was it the state of their relationship; the way he acted when they were together made that obvious. It was something else, something she couldn't put her finger on, but in thinking back, she realized she'd first noticed it on Tuesday afternoon, just after she'd gotten home with Ben.
Ben, as usual, had darted from the car to play with Zeus, anxious to burn off energy before his music lesson. As she stood visiting with Nana in the kennel office, she spied Logan standing in the yard, his hands in his pockets, seemingly lost in concentration. Even in the truck, as he'd slipped his arm around her, she could tell he'd remained preoccupied. And tonight after his game of chess with Ben, he'd wandered out onto the porch alone.
Beth joined him a few minutes later and took a seat beside him on the swing.
"Is something bothering you?" she finally asked.
He didn't answer right away. "I'm not sure," he said.
"Are you upset with me?"
He shook his head and smiled. "Not at all."
"What's going on?"
He hesitated. "I'm not sure," he said again.
She stared at him from beneath her lashes. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Yeah," he said. "But not yet."
On Saturday, with Ben at his father's, they drove to Sunset Beach near Wilmington.
By that point, the summer crowds had disappeared, and aside from a few people strolling the beach, they had the place to themselves. The ocean, fed by the Gulf, was still warm enough to enjoy, and they waded knee-deep in the surf as Logan lobbed a tennis ball beyond the breakers. Zeus was having the time of his life, paddling furiously and occasionally barking as if trying to intimidate the ball into staying in one place.
She'd packed a picnic along with some towels, and when Zeus grew tired, they retreated farther up the beach and settled down for lunch. Methodically, she pulled out the makings for sandwiches and cut up fresh fruit. As they ate, a shrimp trawler rode the horizon, and for a long time, Logan focused on it with the preoccupied gaze she'd noticed on and off for most of the week.
"You're getting that look again," she finally said.
"What look?"
"Spill it," she said, ignoring his question. "What's bothering you? And no vague answers this time."
"I'm fine," he said, turning to meet her gaze. "I know I've seemed a little off for the la
st few days, but I'm just trying to figure something out."
"What, exactly?"
"Why we're going out."
Her heart skipped a beat. It wasn't what she'd expected to hear, and she could feel her expression freeze.
"That came out wrong," he said, shaking his head quickly. "I didn't mean it the way you think. I was thinking more about why this opportunity even existed. It doesn't make sense."
She frowned. "I'm still not following you."
Zeus, who'd been lying beside them, lifted his head to watch a flock of seagulls that landed nearby. Beyond them, at the water's edge, were pipers darting about for tiny sand crabs. Logan studied them before going on. When he spoke, his voice was steady, like a professor elaborating on a subject he taught.
"If you look at this from my perspective, this is what I see: an intelligent, charming, beautiful woman, not yet thirty, witty, and passionate. Also, when she wishes, extremely seductive." He gave her a knowing smile before continuing. "In other words, a catch, by pretty much anyone's definition." He paused. "Stop me if I'm making you uncomfortable."
She reached over and tapped his knee. "You're doing just fine," she said. "Go on."
He ran a restless hand through his hair. "That's what I've been trying to understand. I've been thinking about it the last few days."
She tried without success to follow his train of thought. This time instead of tapping his knee, she squeezed it. "You need to learn to be more clear. I'm still not following you."
For the first time since she'd known him, she saw a flash of impatience cross his features. Almost immediately it was gone, and she sensed somehow that it was directed more at himself than at her.
"I'm saying that it doesn't make sense that you haven't had a relationship since your ex." He paused, as if searching for the right phrase. "Yes, you have a son, and for some men, that might make a relationship with you a nonstarter. But then, you don't generally hide the fact that you're a mother, and I assume most people in this small town know your situation. Am I right?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
"And the men who asked you out. They all knew you had a son in advance?"
"Yes."
He fixed her with a speculative expression. "Then where are they?"
Zeus rotated his head into her lap, and she began to stroke him behind the ears, feeling her defensiveness rise.
"What does it matter?" she asked. "And to be honest, I'm not sure I'm all that thrilled with these kinds of questions. What happened in the past is my business, and I can't undo it, and I'll be damned if you're going to sit here and question me about who I dated and when I dated them and what happened on those dates. I am who I am, and I'd think you of all people would understand that, Mr. I-walked-from-Colorado-but-don't-ask-me-why."
He was quiet, and she knew he was reflecting on what she'd said. When he spoke again, his voice brimmed with unexpected tenderness.
"I'm not saying this to make you angry. I'm saying this because I think you're the most remarkable woman I've ever met." Again, he paused before going on, making sure his words had penetrated. "The thing is, I'm pretty sure that almost every man would feel the same way I do. And since you have gone out with other men, especially in this small town where there are only so many available women in your age group, I'm sure they would have recognized the terrific person that you are. Okay, maybe some of them weren't your cup of tea, so you ended it. But what about the others? The ones you liked? There had to have been someone, somewhere along the line with whom you seemed to click."
He scooped up a handful of sand and slowly spread his fingers, allowing the grains to slip through his fingers. "That's what I've been thinking about. Because it's just not plausible that you wouldn't have clicked with someone, and yet you told me yourself that you haven't had a lot of luck in the dating world."
He wiped his hand on the towel. "Am I wrong so far?"
She stared at him, wondering how he knew so much. "No," she said.
"And you've wondered about it, haven't you?"
"Sometimes," she confessed. "But don't you think you're reading way too much into this? Even if I were as perfect as you say, you have to remember that times have changed. There are probably thousands, if not tens of thousands, of women that you could describe in the same way."
"Perhaps." He shrugged.
"But you're not convinced."
"No." His clear blue eyes held her in their unwavering scrutiny.
"What? You think there's some sort of conspiracy?"
Instead of answering directly, he reached for another handful of sand. "What can you tell me about your ex?" he asked.
"Why does that matter?"
"I'm curious as to how he feels about you dating."
"I'm sure he doesn't care in the slightest. And I can't imagine why you think that even matters."
He released the sand all at once. "Because," he said, his voice low. He turned toward her. "I'm pretty sure he was the one who broke into my house the other day."
19
Thibault
Late Saturday evening, after Elizabeth had left, Thibault found Victor sitting in his living room, still dressed in the shorts and cabana-style shirt he'd been wearing on the day he died.
The sight of him stopped Thibault in his tracks. All he could do was stare. It wasn't possible, nor was it really happening. Thibault knew that Victor was gone, buried in a small plot near Bakersfield. He knew Zeus would have reacted had anyone real been in the house, but Zeus simply wandered to his water bowl.
In the silence, Victor smiled. "There is more," he said, his voice a hoarse promise.
When Thibault blinked, Victor was gone, and it was obvious he'd never been there at all.
It was the third time Thibault had seen Victor since he had passed away. The first time had been at the funeral, when Thibault had rounded a corner near the back of the church and seen Victor staring at him from the end of the hallway. "It's not your fault," Victor had said before dissolving away. Thibault's throat had closed up, forcing him to rush to catch his breath.
The second appearance occurred three weeks before he set out on his walk. That time, it had happened in the grocery store, as Thibault was rummaging through his wallet, trying to figure out how much beer he could purchase. He'd been drinking heavily in those days, and as he counted the bills, he saw an image from the corner of his eye. Victor shook his head but said nothing. He didn't have to. Thibault knew that he was being told that it was time to end the drinking.
Now, this.
Thibault didn't believe in ghosts, and he knew that the image of Victor hadn't been real. There was no specter haunting him, no visits from beyond, no restless spirit with a message to deliver. Victor was a figment of his imagination, and Thibault knew that his subconscious had conjured up the image. After all, Victor had been the one person Thibault had always listened to.
He knew the boating accident had been just that: an accident. The kids who'd been driving the boat had been traumatized, and their horror at what had happened was genuine. As for the drinking, he'd known deep down that the booze was doing more harm than good. Somehow, though, it was easier to listen to Victor.
The last thing he'd expected was to see his friend once more.
He considered Victor's words--there is more--and wondered whether they related to his conversation with Elizabeth. Somehow he didn't think so, but he couldn't figure it out, and it nagged at him. He suspected that the harder he pressed himself for an answer, the less likely it was that the answer would come. The subconscious was funny like that.
He wandered to the small kitchen to pour himself a glass of milk, put some food in the bowl for Zeus, and went to his room. Lying in bed, he brooded on the things he'd told Elizabeth.
He'd thought long and hard about saying anything at all. He wasn't even certain what he'd hoped to accomplish by doing so, other than to open her eyes to the possibility that Keith Clayton might just be controlling her life in ways she couldn't imagine.
Which was exactly what the man was doing. Thibault had become sure of it when he'd first noticed the break-in. Of course, it could have been anyone--someone wanting to make a quick buck grabbing items that could be sold in pawnshops--but the way it had been done suggested otherwise. It was too neat. Nothing had been strewn about. Nothing was even out of place. Nearly everything had, however, been adjusted.
The blanket on the bed was the first giveaway. There was a tiny ridge in the blanket, caused by someone who didn't know how to tuck in the covers military fashion--something few, if anyone, would have noticed. He noticed. The clothes in his drawers showed similar disturbances: a rumple here, a sleeve folded the wrong way there. Not only had someone entered the home while he'd been at work, but he'd searched the house thoroughly.
But why? Thibault had nothing of value to steal. A quick peek through the windows beforehand made it plain there was nothing valuable in the place. Not only was the living room devoid of electronics, but the second bedroom stood completely empty, and the room where he slept contained only a bed, end table, and lamp. Aside from dishes and utensils and an ancient electric can opener on the counter, the kitchen was empty, too. The pantry contained dog food, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. But someone had taken the time to search the house anyway from top to bottom, including under his mattress. Someone had diligently gone through his drawers and cleaned up afterward.
No outrage at finding nothing of value. No evident frustration that the break-in had been a waste. Instead, the burglar had attempted to cover his tracks.
Whoever had broken in had come to the house not to steal, but to look for something. Something specific. It hadn't taken long to figure out what it was and who had been responsible.
Keith Clayton wanted his camera. Or, more likely, he wanted the disk. Probably because the photographs on the disk could get him in trouble. No great leap of logic, considering what Clayton had been doing the first time they'd bumped into each other.
All right, so Clayton wanted to cover his tracks. But there was still more to this than met the eye. And it had to do with Elizabeth.
It didn't make sense that she hadn't had any relationships in the past ten years. But it did jibe with something he'd heard while standing around the pool table, showing her picture to the group of locals. What had one of them said? It had taken a while to recall the exact words, and he wished he had paid more attention to the comment. He'd been so focused on learning Elizabeth's name, he'd ignored it at the time--a mistake. In hindsight, there was something menacing about the comment's implication.