A Dark Love (12 page)

Ken leaned lower on the seat, looking up through the windshield.

She thought how easy he was with his body, how free of tension he was, how relaxed. As though he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t. Most people didn’t. There were people who went about their day, not explaining anything to anyone and not worried about anything. Caroline marveled at the thought. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Ken straightened up.

“You can usually find her here,” he said. “That’s her nest. If you check back in spring, she’ll have her little ones with her.” He replaced the binoculars in the glove compartment, which overflowed with Audubon Society guides, trail maps, and a large knife inside a worn leather holster. It was a comfortable clutter, filled with items required by a man who spent a great deal of time outdoors.

“Sorry about the mess,” Ken said, pushing the jumble to the back of the compartment so he could snap it shut.

Caroline found the clutter reassuring, a sign of messy sanity.

He put the Jeep back into gear. “I know this is her
home, and I know I’ll probably see her every time I drive down this road. But it still knocks me out every time.” He smiled. “Birds are smarter than you think. They build their nests near the road, which you might not expect, but it works out. They don’t have to worry about hikers. Most people drive right by and don’t ever look up. So she can raise her young in peace.”

Caroline was intrigued. “Hide in plain sight.”

Nodding, Ken turned and gave her a look of approval. “Alice Stevens, you’ve just named the basic rule of survival. Hide in plain sight.”

Slowly Caroline had withdrawn from life. She tried to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She didn’t want to provide Porter with ammunition when he fell into one of his black moods.

Looking back, she couldn’t pinpoint when her goals had shrunk so small.

She had dressed with care for her second date with Porter, making sure she was early. She waited in the lobby to save him the long walk from the elevator to her dorm room and the round of introductions that, she feared, would be awkward.

She perched on the edge of the worn lobby couch for a time before standing to pace, checking the clock on the wall again and again to be certain she was prompt.

His cab arrived exactly at the appointed time. He wore a black coat of pure cashmere, with a white scarf of silk knotted loosely at his throat. Despite the light snow, he got out to greet her properly. “You’re on time,” he said approvingly, taking her hand in his gloved one, brushing her cheek with his lips.

Caroline quivered with nervous excitement.

They were off to see his friend’s art show at a gallery that was crowded, and well beyond the reach of the Metro. Caroline was younger than most of the patrons, and noticed with smug satisfaction she appeared to be the only college student in attendance. She took many small gulps of white wine from her plastic stemmed glass, content to let Porter lead her through each room. Once, she caught her reflection in a mirror, ghostly and pale, a fact she attributed to poor lighting rather than nerves.

They wound slowly through the gallery. He stopped and asked her what she thought about each and every painting. It was flattering, at first. She had dedicated the last three years of her life to studying art, after all, laying the foundation for her life as a fine artist. She hoped one day to see her own paintings for sale in a gallery such as this. Not in a big city, but maybe in a small town with wide-open spaces where she could clear her mind and paint what she saw.

Porter introduced her to a well-dressed, older woman. Another psychoanalyst. The three chatted briefly before leaving.

In the cab, Porter informed the driver there would be two stops. First stop would be Caroline’s dorm in Foggy Bottom.

“That was fun,” Caroline said.

Porter stared out the window, wordless.

Caroline wondered if he had heard. “I like going to art shows. And it was fun meeting one of your friends.”

“She is a professional colleague, not a friend.” His tone was ice.

Caroline sat, aware that she was witnessing one of Porter’s mood changes, which happened lightning-
quick. She was annoyed, and was about to tell him so, but the mournfulness in his tone stopped her before she said anything.

“I’m so embarrassed, I just don’t know what to do.”

There was no doubting his sincerity as Caroline pondered his delicate profile, confused and embarrassed herself.

The cab crept along Massachusetts Avenue, thick with Saturday night traffic. People walked in groups, the sound of their laughter drifting through the window.

Inside, the cab was silent and cold like a bank just before closing. A knot formed in Caroline’s stomach, twisting tighter and tighter as it gathered all the promise the night had held. She suspected she knew the answer to the question she was about to ask, but she asked it anyway. “You’re embarrassed?”

His lips tightened, moving his pale beard ever so slightly. He turned to her at last and blinked. “Do you hear yourself speak?”

“What?” The knot in her stomach twisted a few more turns.

“I mean, do you have any sense of the way you sound?”

In her mind, she reviewed everything she had said, everyone they had spoken with. She toyed with the idea of telling him she hadn’t talked to any French waiters, but she was already learning never to make light of Porter’s hurt feelings. “Do you mean your friend?”

He stared at her, his pale eyes wide. “She’s not my friend. She is a psychoanalyst who trained with me. Which means every nuance, every word you use, carries meaning for her. What you said tonight revealed to her your basic personality trait. Dishonesty.”

“Huh?”

The glance he gave her was accusing. “You used the word ‘switch.’ Not once. Twice. To describe the artist’s use of colors.”

Caroline frowned, not following.

Porter shook his head, as though he realized he was speaking to an idiot. “It’s a loaded word, Caroline. Words have meanings on many different levels. And that word…” His voice trailed off. He shook his head and stared out the window.

She had hurt him. The whole thing seemed silly to her, but she could see it mattered to him. Something about him, this serious yet sincere man dressed in black, mattered to her for reasons she could not understand. She pictured him dressing to come out tonight, choosing the white scarf with care, knotting it just so at his throat, making himself ready for his date. So that he would appear attractive to her. And she had ruined it for him without meaning to. He’d told her about the tough breaks he’d had in life, and she wanted more than anything not to add to Porter’s list of emotional injuries.

Caroline placed one hand gently on his arm, which was stiff. “Listen, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was so excited to come tonight, to meet a friend of yours and get to know you better. That’s all.” She drew in a deep breath and tried to swallow around the lump in her throat.

Her words seemed to soften something inside him, and this made her happy.

She felt a tremor in his arm, his chest.

He leaned forward, pulled off his glove, and took a swipe at his eyes.

Caroline realized with shock he was crying. Mortified,
she looked away. Then leaned across the seat, closing the distance between them. “Porter, it’s okay,” she murmured, trying to comfort him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I want to meet your friends. Really.”

He looked at her, his pale eyes filled with remorse. He swallowed. “It’s me,” he said gently, gesturing at his white hair. “I have trouble when I’m around groups of people. I get nervous.”

Caroline threw her arms around him. This man who seemed so powerful and sophisticated one minute was so vulnerable. He was like a rare and exotic bird. He needed her. She needed to prove to him that she cared little for the color of a person’s hair. “Hey, Porter, don’t worry about it.” She smiled. “We all get nervous. Dating is hard.”

He looked in her eyes. She saw a frightened boy inside him, anxious to be loved. Her heart melted. She smiled and kissed him on the lips.

His mouth was warm. He gathered her close and parted her lips with his tongue. He thrust it quickly inside her mouth, hard and probing and insistent, in and out.

Exotic.

Excitement hissed through Caroline with the speed and intensity of a downed electric wire. She had never kissed anyone this old. He was thirty-two.

They kissed until the driver pulled up outside her dorm. Porter murmured that he wished she could spend the night with him, just holding him, nothing more.

They went to his place.

Later in the dark, in his bed, she marveled at his body, lean and muscled and sinewy. Every hair on it from head to toe was white.

Not gray, he explained, but lacking pigment due to a rare genetic disorder that made him look older than he was. The onset had come at puberty years after his mother had left, but her fault, he explained, just the same.

Unsure what would be the right thing to say, Caroline settled for stroking his hair, which was the shade and consistency of dried straw.

“Do you know what it was like to go through high school with a head full of white hair? I got beat up every week.” Tears thickened his voice.

Caroline was moved beyond words by this admission. She wanted to prove to him that her feelings were more than skin-deep, that her sincerity matched his own. And so she did, using her lips, her hands, and her arms to prove herself worthy of him.

“Don’t ever leave me, Caroline,” he whispered, over and over. “Don’t ever hurt me with another man. Promise me.”

And so she promised him with her caresses. She came to believe on that night that she could heal the terrible scars from his past, make Porter whole and secure simply by loving him.

It felt good to be needed.

When they were done, he lay beside her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Thrilled that her unique gift hadn’t gone unnoticed, Caroline smiled in the darkness. “Because it was my decision. I wanted to make you happy.”

“Oh, Caroline,” he breathed, rolling over to face her. He took her in his arms and covered her long brown hair in soft kisses. “Such a rare and beautiful princess. What a treasure you’ve given me.”

In that dim room with the steam heat hissing softly through the radiators and the traffic sounds rising up from Dupont Circle, Porter Moross was sweet and happy and easy to please. The way Caroline imagined he had been as a boy. Before the world turned sad for him, before his mother left and his own body turned against him. She could restore him to that safe, warm place simply by loving him. And the act of loving Porter would transform Caroline as well, setting her free forever from her past as a damaged little girl with a dark secret, into a grown-up with a whole new life.

The next day she received a FedEx package at her dorm from a Japanese company she had never heard of with an address on Fifth Avenue in New York City. It contained a small rectangular box made of chocolate-covered velvet. Inside was a strand of pearls that gleamed like steel.

The note was simple.

They were married five months later.

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.

H
ow was work?” Lindsay Crowley stood in the doorway of their master bedroom suite.

A question that meant, John Crowley knew, his wife wanted to tell him something interesting about her day. “Good.” He had already removed his seersucker suit jacket and loosened his tie in the limo. Now he undid the buttons on his dress shirt in preparation for the shower he was about to take, his second of the day.

D.C. in summer was not all that different from Houston. “How was yours?”

“Interesting, in an odd way.” His wife, cool and crisp in a Lily Pulitzer shift, took his sweaty clothes from him. She told him about her visit to the local police. “I don’t think that young man appreciates the information I gave him. Something’s wrong, John.” Lindsay jutted her chin in the direction of Moross’s house across the street, but her tone left no doubt she was disappointed in the police response as well.

“I mean, I fail to see how sending a squad car over is going to help that girl, wherever she is, if he’s already giving away her things.” Lindsay wrapped John’s sweaty
suit into a ball and tossed it into the dry-cleaning bin.

If the cop who took his wife’s complaint today thought he’d settled things with Lindsay, either he was a very poor judge of people or else the guy had never been married. John Crowley surveyed his wife, whipping things into place before his work clothes could muss the designer silk bedspread and matching dust ruffle. “Do you want me to make a few calls tomorrow?” John waited for Lindsay’s answer.

There was no point in playing possum with a woman when you were standing in your undershorts, sweaty and wanting a shower.

Lindsay smiled. “Oh, John, that would be such a help.”

“You got it.” John checked his watch. The Astros were hosting the Mets in Houston tonight. He had just enough time to shower and get settled in front of the TV with a cold beer before the opening pitch.

“You’ll let me know what you find out, won’t you?”

“You bet.”

“Wherever that little gal went, I hope she gets there safe and sound,” Lindsay said.

John nodded in agreement.

Lindsay gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, how’s that sound?”

“Good.” John headed for the shower.

“I’ll leave your Astros shirt on the bed,” she called after him.

S
TORM
P
ASS
, C
OLORADO

Nan Birmingham adjusted the back burner and gave the chili one more stir before heading through the living room to answer the doorbell.

“Shush, boys,” she called to the dogs, though it did no good. They raced ahead, barking and snarling, as someone pressed the bell again. The chimes rang out, little used and over loud in the stillness of the afternoon. The dogs went wild, and no wonder. It was rare for anyone besides Federico or one of his sons to come to the main house without calling first, and when they did come they always came around back.

The dogs took turns launching themselves at the storm door once Nan pulled open the main one, which was made of solid oak.

Figures, she thought, a traveling salesman.

He smiled. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”

Nan gave a short nod in response and attempted to sweep the dogs back with a mild kick. It did no good.

“I see you have your friends with you today,” he remarked, speaking extra loud to make himself heard through the glass.

Nan nodded.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, ma’am. May I ask, do you currently have a cable connection for your modem?”

Frowning, she shook her head. They didn’t get many solicitors out here where the houses were miles apart.

Scout, fangs bared, jumped high in the air, over and over again. Poppit kept on barking.

“I thought not,” the man replied smoothly. “I’m from ClearSky Cable with a limited-time offer today.”

“No thanks,” Nan said, preparing to close the oak door.

The salesman spoke faster now, moving closer to the storm door so that Nan’s thoughts turned to the antique shotgun hanging above the mantel. The gun was loaded.

“I can get you six months free on your TV and waive the signup for a high-speed Internet hookup,” he said hopefully.

Nan shook her head. “I don’t go on the Internet.” The chili could do with another stir by now, and the gas probably needed lowering.

The salesman motioned with his clipboard, took another step closer to the door, where the dogs continued to bray, leaving wet sprays of slobber on the glass. “Say, you’re a cute little fella,” he said, dropping to one knee and tapping on the glass.

Nan stared. He must be daft.

He pulled a treat from his pocket and tapped it against the glass.

Poppit, the smarter of the two, stopped barking once he caught sight of the treat and dropped to his haunches.

Confused, Scout cocked his head.

Both dogs, thankfully, quieted down.

“Well, that’s something,” Nan breathed.

The man looked up with a quick smile. “May I?” He pulled the storm door open without waiting for an answer and tossed the treat inside.

Scout pounced on it at once.

“Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from.” The man pulled a handful of treats from his pocket and tossed one to Poppit. “They’re great little dogs you got there.” The man propped the door open with his knee, careful not to let the dogs escape, and fed them more treats.

“Thanks,” Nan replied, watching as Poppit gently nibbled from the salesman’s hand.

Scout, on the other hand, snapped his jaws closed so fast around the treat he nearly bit the man’s fingers.

Poppit approached the salesman and sat, waiting.

The man ruffled the soft fur behind Poppit’s ears. “This one has got nice manners.”

“He sure does.” Nan glanced at Scout who stood, panting, just out of the man’s reach.

The white dog yipped, demanding another treat.

The salesman complied. “There you go, fella.”

Reassured now that the man had abandoned his efforts to sell her cable, Nan loosened up a bit. “That one’s the only one belongs to me, I’m afraid,” Nan said with a smile. “Can’t take credit for the other.”

“Well, they’re both great little dogs. What kind are they?”

“The white one’s a Jack Russell and the other is a Yorkshire terrier, I believe.”

The salesman had been studying the dogs. He straightened up now. “You get ’em both at the same time?”

“No, the Yorkie is—” Nan stopped herself. That chili needed lowering. “He is a good dog. Sorry I won’t be doing business with you today.”

The man considered this, gave a pleasant smile. “Well, I’ll just say that even if you don’t want it for yourself, that Internet connection sure will come in handy for keeping in touch with the grandkids, or for when your grown children come to visit.” He glanced at Poppit, and Nan understood the implicit question about the little dog and the grown son or daughter who might be visiting.

Nan was country in her heart, enough to have opened her door to a strange man in the middle of the day. But she was also a Westerner, and a woman who lived alone far from the nearest town. She didn’t take the bait. “Sorry,” she said, pulling the handle on the storm door and clicking the lock into place.

He nodded, still smiling. “No problem. You change your mind, you just give us a call. Thanks again for your time, ma’am, and have a pleasant day.”

“Will do.” Nan closed the oak door and hurried back to the chili that was, as she suspected, close to burning.

Steering with one hand, the PI jotted two words on his clipboard with the other as his blue minivan bounced down Nan Birmingham’s drive.

Yorkshire terrier.

He had been told to watch for a small dog. He couldn’t remember what breed it was, but that would be easy to check later in his file. The old lady hadn’t wanted to give anything up, no more than the innkeeper in town. But he’d gotten enough. And he’d been at this business long enough to know that all it took was a little bit to get the job done.

He smiled and turned onto the county road.

This assignment was turning out to be a piece of cake.

From the eagle’s nest it was a short distance to Ken’s place. A drive of crushed stone led through a pasture to an A-frame house of rough-hewn logs set well back from the road. The scent of sagebrush was everywhere. The front porch held an old-fashioned wood swing and a container garden with the season’s last small clusters of cherry tomatoes staked and secured with twine.

Ken followed Caroline’s gaze. “I have a proper vegetable garden out back in summer, but these are all that’s left now.”

Caroline’s eyebrows lifted. “You cook?”

He laughed. “I give it the ol’ college try. I do okay, if I do say so. Beats taking my chances with Gus.”

“You could always rely on Nan,” Caroline pointed out. “She’d never let you starve.”

“Nan Birmingham’s got a heart of gold,” Ken agreed. “She adopted my father and me after my mother died. When I moved home again from Kansas City a few years ago, I discovered she’s a really good listener. It really helps.”

He was giving her a subtle suggestion, and one that Caroline knew she could not take. Aware of his gaze on her, she pretended to study the neighboring peaks and hoped he wouldn’t ask how she came to be here.

She was grateful when he patted one of the cushions on the porch swing. “Have a seat. If you’ve got a minute, I’ll get you a glass of sun tea before we head back.”

Caroline hesitated. It was best not to linger. Her strategy for survival did not include spending time with a man who was so handsome she couldn’t think straight.

But it was too late. Ken had already disappeared, returning moments later with two glasses of ice. He filled them with amber liquid from a jug that was propped against the railing. Pressing a drink into Caroline’s hand, he raised his glass. “I propose a toast. To nothing in particular.” Grinning, he clinked her glass with his. “Make yourself at home, Alice. You’re in my favorite place to watch the world go by. I’ll be back in a minute.” He went inside again, the screen door slamming behind.

Which gave Caroline no choice but to do as he had said. She settled back against the cushions and realized immediately he was right. The view was fantas
tic. Cardinals and starlings darted across the meadow, hawks wheeled on air currents high in the sky. Above it all was majestic Ute Pass. She removed her sunglasses to get a better look at the colors, raised one foot to the porch rail, and let her head lean against the back cushion. It felt good. Her Cardinals cap tumbled off her head. She shook out her short locks and closed her eyes.

She loved this place. She could paint it. But she had vowed to live on the run rather than risk discovery by Porter.

“Told you it’s the best seat in the house.” Ken reappeared with a tray of chips and guacamole. He stopped short in mock surprise as a slow, easy smile took hold of his jaw. “Wow. Your hat’s off.”

Flustered, Caroline sat upright.

“Um, take it easy there, Alice, I didn’t mean anything by that.” His tone was sincere but he didn’t allow the moment to linger, a fact she appreciated. He set the tray down on a small table and pulled it close, lowering himself firmly onto the seat beside her.

She was aware of how the swing shifted under his weight.

He held the bowl of chips out. “Dig in. I made the guac myself.”

She dipped a chip and popped it into her mouth. It was delicious, tangy with a hint of heat. “Very good.” She chased it with a sip of tea, which was sweet and cold.

“Glad you like it. I grew the cilantro myself. And the tea is a secret Kincaid family recipe that’s been handed down for generations.” He knit his brows together in a mock serious expression. “A couple of tea bags and some
water with honey and lemon thrown in at the end.” He laughed, reminding her again of his father. “Here’s to you, Alice.” Ken took a deep swig and looked around. “I’m a country boy at heart.”

“I can see why,” Caroline said, sneaking a glance at his face.

He seemed relaxed, at peace, taking it all in. “Takes my breath away,” he said, shifting his gaze to her.

The flirtation was too much. Caroline took another sip of iced tea, mostly for something to do. Ken Kincaid seemed to say whatever was on his mind, plain and simple. What would it be like, she wondered, to have a man like him for a partner in life, to go through all her days and nights with a man like him at her side? There were people, she thought, who did not walk through life on eggshells. The realization of how much she had traded away by pledging her life to Porter filled her with regret. She drew in a long breath and looked out over the meadow.

Shifting his gaze to some point in the distance, Ken gave the swing a push with one foot. “I don’t rush things. It’s just not the Western way, I guess. Life is good.” He raised his glass in another toast and sipped, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the fleece collar of his jacket.

Caroline didn’t trust her voice, so she nodded. She was experiencing none of the nervous energy she had felt when she first met Porter. She felt no need to smooth Ken’s feelings or find three different ways of saying something to make him understand she meant no insult. In fact, she felt no pressure to do anything. So she sat, listening to Ken tell her in his gentle, deep voice some of the facts of his life. And this broke through the protec
tive shell Caroline had built during her life with Porter, revealing something of the person who had been locked up inside.

“I would have given anything to grow up in a place like this,” she said at last, gazing up at the peak. “I read that book
Heidi
, you know? It was a really old book with woodcut illustrations, and I still remember one that showed Heidi in her little bed at night, all tucked away with her long braids underneath a pretty quilt, looking up at the mountaintop and the stars that were right outside her window.” Caroline’s mind flashed back to an image of her bedroom overlooking the grime-filled streets of Baltimore, how she wrapped her pillow tight around her ears at night to block out the sounds inside the tiny apartment, praying to God to make her sleep through till morning no matter what. “I don’t know why, I just always remembered that picture,” she said, aware that Ken had turned to look at her.