Audrey's Promise (16 page)

“Well, you three have fun. I’m off Christmas shopping in Tyler.” Myrna stood and set her mug in the sink, clearly oblivious to Audrey and Ethan’s insinuation. “There’s leftovers in the fridge for lunch if I’m not back in time.”

When their mother walked out, Adelaide poured herself a glass of milk and then glared at her sister. “I’d rather go alone today.”

“And I’m saying it’s not gonna happen.” Audrey’s glare was much more convincing, having more years of practice, let alone time in politics.

“Then I’d rather not go.”

“Fine. In case you change your mind while Ethan and I are running errands, I’ll bring along your car keys.”

Unadulterated rage was the mastered emotion of every teenage drama queen. “You can’t do that! You’re not Mom! You have no right to exert authority over me!”

“True,” Audrey replied calmly, with firmness implanted in her eyes. “So why don’t we go talk to Mom.”

Adelaide practically growled as she stomped her socks on the tile.

“Didn’t you listen to anything I said last night?” Audrey pleaded.

“Of course I did! It’s just a skate party.”

Audrey threw daggers with her eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

Adelaide flounced out of the kitchen, milk glass in hand. “Adam’s right. You
have
become a boring, tight-ass cheat!”

When Ethan’s arrogant smile was the only other face in the room, Audrey felt like smacking it off his face. Or pressing her lips against it. This man looked too good for the crack of dawn. She’d seen a brief glimpse of his protective nature, and tasted the raw passion simmering under the surface of his skin.

She’d fallen asleep to the mental image of him a breath away from her mouth, and then the illusion of finally joining together, tasting his sweet sultry tongue and her flesh tingling against his silky hands on every inch of her body. All before the nightmares took over.

“I think that’s the exact definition in the dictionary for a politician. How do you feel to be pigeonholed? Oh wait, that was your sister.”

“Watch it,” Audrey smirked and sipped her coffee.
He’s such an ass sometimes. I should kick him to the bus stop, but I’m trapped by those gray eyes of his, again.

“You think Brace will be wearing clothes this time?” Ethan muttered quietly. “Skating naked is hardly comfortable on developing genitals.”

Audrey rolled her eyes. “I’ll finish getting dressed, and then I’ll drop you at the library.”
For good, if I know what’s best for me.
“How long do you think you’ll need?”

Ethan shrugged and stood. “I’ll call you when I’m done. What are you gonna do?”

“Oh, I’ve got a hot date.”

“At 9 a.m.? That’s the time hot dates should be
ending
.”

“All right, Romeo. I’ll meet you back down here in twenty minutes.”

Before she could turn out of the room, Ethan touched her elbow and pulled her back. His smirk had vanished and Audrey couldn’t tell which was warmer, the coffee mug in his one hand or the look he gave her. Sincere and gentle.

He turned her palm over in his hand and tenderly grazed it with his thumb.

“Are you all right?” His voice was even gentler.

“I’m fine.” Instinctual answer, practiced over years of grunt work in politics. From the continued focus of Ethan’s stare, he didn’t buy it.

“Are we going to talk about what happened last night?”

“Which part? The brick or the kiss?”

His gaze darkened and pulled her in closer. It nearly stopped her heart. Brushing this off wasn’t going to work.

“Is this Ethan Tanner the journalist asking?”

He rolled his eyes. “Enough with that.”

The cologne he wore was different this morning—stronger, more crisp. Yet equally distracting.

“Tell me what that was last night.” The hard edge to his voice surprised her.

“I’d rather not.” His hard gray eyes bored into hers, but she’d fortified her resolve the previous night. “Thanks for your help, though.”

Less than a half hour later, Audrey drove down the frost-covered roads with Ethan thumbing through his phone, hoping an internet connection would materialize the closer they got to the library. Her cowl-neck sweater matched the evergreen trees lining the road as she curved and cut through the fallow brown fields. Staring at a phone or reading anything if in Ethan’s seat would have made her carsick. Which is probably why she wasn’t a writer.

A small, historic graveyard passed the driver’s side window, a short, iron-rod fence surrounding the slight hill up to an expansive oak tree, spreading its amber limbs across a pond’s edge. Audrey could hardly wait to see the spot that fulfilled her soul, and yet almost dreaded the familiar sorrow that was sure to follow. But she didn’t gaze too long, not wanting Ethan to ask questions. Or see her weakness.

The small, one-story library appeared another half mile down the road, nestled among tall pines and cedars and desperately needed an update. The corners of the foundation crumbled into the gravel parking lot and deep cracks in the brick façade cut like tributaries stemming from a main stream.

“How charming,” Ethan said as he finally looked up. Still no Internet connection.

“Are you saying you’re too good to use a facility older than your ratty tennis shoes?”

“Not at all,” he replied, replacing his small frown with a grin. “The older they are, the more secrets they have.”

So the genuine concern was gone. He was back to the journalist.

“Ha, ha. Call me when you’re done with emails. Try not to piss of the librarian.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be her best friend by the time I’m done. See you later, honey.” He blew her a mock kiss and climbed out, laptop bag in hand.

The uneasy, I’m-gonna-regret-this feeling in her gut didn’t hit her until she saw Ethan grinning after her as she glanced in the rearview mirror pulling onto the paved road. That grin was both unbelievably attractive and annoying simultaneously.

The rumbling in her mind didn’t stop when she pulled onto the side of the road, climbed out of her car and approached the wrought-iron fence in front of the graveyard. Her black coat provided less warmth than she expected, but she had to do it.

The chill seeped further into her clothes as she climbed the small hill between gravestones, her feet leading the way as if they knew her mind didn’t want to think. Didn’t want to remember.

Leaves blew across the moist earth and thickened as she approached the top of the hill, where the trees grew higher surrounding the pond. Her place of refuge and inspiration, just beyond her ultimate spot of sorrow.

Finally she reached the one gravestone she both craved and regretted, sitting at the crest of the hill. The black marble among a field of stone and concrete markers stood out, much like its occupant used to do in life. The small, metal vase imbedded in the ground next to it held wilted yellow roses, less than a week old.

Etched across the marble in bold letters read the one Audrey missed most:

JACKSON ALLEN DAVIS

June 12
th
, 1985 - November 28
th
, 2003

Perhaps they are not the stars, but rather openings in Heaven

where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us

to let us know they are happy.

Audrey brushed the leaves off the marble, and let her hand rest on the cold stone. “Hi, Jack,” she whispered.

This time she let the tears flow. Fighting them wasn’t allowed here.

Chapter Seventeen

The smell of old libraries should be made into a home fragrance scent.
Maybe there wasn’t a large enough market for it, but Ethan would be the first to buy ten cases.

As he approached the stacks, he couldn’t help wondering if it was the volumes of old books on the shelves that emitted the lovely smell, or the building itself. Places like this were jackpots for media gold, but people had to be willing to sift through dirt to get it. And Ethan was more than willing.

An older woman, short white hair holding her spectacle lanyard in place, peered up from the cart of books she perused behind the reference desk and stopped. Her thin and fragile frame looked as if she’d blow over at the first sneeze. The deep wrinkles proved she may have been as old as the building itself, and might know the stories he itched to uncover.

“Good morning,” Ethan drawled, his buttering smile in place.

“Good morning,” she replied, still considering him. “Can I help you find something?”

“I hope so.” Ethan placed his satchel on the counter and held out his hand. “I’m Ethan.”

“Margaret Simon.” She shook Ethan’s hand, and he felt every bone and vein in her freezing grip.

“Not many libraries would be open the day after Thanksgiving. I was told you have an internet connection I can use.”

“Yes, the two computers there have access.” She pointed to the far wall where two large box screens sat, the archaic grayish-brown color of early Apples and Hewlett Packards, with cords thicker than hoses. “Or you can plug in your own computer to the open ports.”

“Excellent. Thank you.”

Only after he realized he didn’t have an Ethernet cable did he force himself to try the massive paperweight already in place. The mouse was like a clunky butter dish with a gray button in the center. But thankfully, the internet window wasn’t much different than what he expected. Just insanely slow.

A few minutes later, he hadn’t found any Mackineer newspaper articles. He couldn’t even find the Mackineer local paper’s website. Surely they had a local paper. Every town had one.

The squeak of the shelving cart rolled behind Ethan and he heard the librarian’s “tsk” behind him.

“If you’re looking for newspaper articles from around here,” her brittle voice said, “you have to do it the old-fashioned way.”

He swung around on the rolly-chair. “What do you mean?”

“You young’uns.” She shook her head. “By opening a book. Archived newspaper articles are held in those cabinets there.” She motioned to the back wall and waited for him to follow. “They are sorted by year. What timeframe are you looking for?”

“Um, about ten years ago.”

He almost bumped into her when she stopped and looked at him, her piercing stare waiting for something.

“What’s the purpose of your research?”

“I’m a writer.”

Better to keep things as general as possible. Ethan learned a long time ago not to give too much detail when he researched a story, otherwise people wouldn’t be willing to help him if they learned the truth. On the few instances he needed help.

For a split second, her eyes narrowed but she continued to the right cabinet and pulled open the drawer. Long, brown books, that looked more like artist portfolios were each labeled with volume numbers and dates. The oldest in the drawer looked to be from 1990.

“This drawer holds 1995 to 2005. Please be very delicate with these. They are the only archives in the town. If you need to make copies of anything, please let me know and I’ll take care of it for you.”

“You keep newspaper articles in cabinets? Why not online?”

“Because I choose not to spend the time scanning them in.” Her peacock-like face peering over spectacles gave him the uncanny feeling of being scolded by one of his high school teachers. “This is the system we have. The 1970s or earlier is considerably more fragile, so if you need any of those, please ask me and I’ll bring them out.”

When she strolled away and continued filing books, Ethan pulled out the 2002 album and perused the carefully preserved pages. The Mackineer Eagle newspaper headlines peered out through plastic sleeves, at which Ethan groaned inwardly. Knowing this was going to take a lot longer than he anticipated, he shrugged out of his coat and relocated to an open table on the other side of the stacks, along with the album.

Searching front page headlines seemed the best idea. Some event, or possible murder, in this tiny town had to make the main headline. Perusing obituaries would’ve been fruitless, since he didn’t know the name of the deceased.

Thirty minutes and the 2003 album later, desperate for more coffee or something to quench his dry throat, he found it. If he wasn’t shocked by the image, he would’ve started drooling.

On the front page of November 29
th
, 2003, the headline read “MACKINEER QB DAVIS DEAD AFTER CAR CRASH.” The large photo underneath depicted a mangled mess of metal that used to be an old car surrounded by police tape. Ethan’s gut wrenched at the though of a human being inside the twisted heap grimly portrayed on the front page. Next to it was a portrait, a pretty boy with wavy hair smiling out from the black and white ink. The subtext read: “Jackson Davis school photo, courtesy Mackineer High School.”

The article followed underneath:

Mackineer High School quarterback, Jackson Davis, was found dead late Friday night, at the scene of an accident on FM-158. In addition, senior Audrey Biddinger was discovered severely injured. Police suspect the driver lost control of the vehicle and rolled several times, causing both individuals to be ejected over thirty feet from the wreckage. It is unclear who was driving at the time of the incident and police have not indicated what caused the driver to lose control. Biddinger was taken to a hospital in Tyler and is currently in critical condition. The Davis and Biddinger families have declined to comment.

Jackson Davis and the Mackineer Eagles football team had just won their last playoff game on Friday, November 25
th
, a few hours before the accident. They are due to play the Temple Tigers in the State Championship on Saturday, December 3
rd
. Davis had planned to join the military upon graduation, and held aspirations to serve in public office. He is the only child of Carl and Claire Davis. His memorial is set for December 2
nd
at Mackineer Funeral Home.

Ethan leaned back in the small plastic chair, fighting between a grin and grief. He knew this is what he wanted to find, this was the story to start off the rest of his life. Move to the next step and make it to the high rollers of journalism. But a growing part inside of him suddenly regretted what he found.