One Summer (38 page)

W
hen Jeremy opened his eyes, he still couldn’t see anything. For a moment he was frightened, thinking he must have somehow gone blind. Then he realized that wherever he was was very dark. So dark, he could see nothing. Absolutely nothing, not even his knees, which were drawn up right in front of his nose as he lay on his side on something very hard and cold.

Everything around him was cold, and musty-smelling, like an old basement. No place in his father’s house was as dark and cold and bad-smelling as this place, whatever it was. They didn’t even have a basement. Or a cave, which was kind of what this felt like.

He was not in his father’s house. Jeremy shivered as he realized that. Was he dead, then? Was this hell, or purgatory? Was his mom somewhere around? But no, she would be in heaven. If anyone deserved to go to heaven, it was his mom.

He lifted his head, meaning to look around. The sharp pain that ricocheted through his skull made him dizzy and nauseous. His head hurt. How had he hurt his head? Had he fallen?

Then, slowly, memory returned. He’d been sitting on the stoop, and someone—not Heather—had called him to come help free Sam. It occurred to Jeremy in a hideous
flash of insight that that someone must have been whoever had killed his mom. The thing he’d seen in the dark—it had come back for him.

Jeremy whimpered. The sound scared him, and he shut up. What if he was in the thing’s hideout—what if it was nearby, listening for him to wake up? Would it kill him, like it had killed his mom?

Very carefully, very quietly, he laid his head back down on the hard, cold surface beneath him, drew his knees closer into his body, and wrapped his arms around them. Curled up in a little ball, he closed his eyes again.

Silent tears seeped down his cheeks.

43

“A
unt Rachel, look!” Coming upright from where she had been turning cartwheels alongside the stone path, Loren pointed toward the house. Rachel, looking, frowned. Who was the man walking down the path toward her?

Johnny! She almost gaped as her eyes ran over him from the top of his shorn head to the polished tips of his cordovan dress shoes. He was still the handsomest man she had ever seen, but the elegant clothes gave him an aura of polish and easy power that she had never before associated with him. He looked like a young, handsome, and very sexy CEO. Who he didn’t look like was Johnny Harris.

“Well?” He was grinning as he got near enough to speak, probably because of her expression. Rachel closed her mouth and shook her head at him.

“You got a haircut!”

“You told me I needed one.”

“But you didn’t have to—I hope you didn’t do it for
me
.”

“No, I did it for Wolf. Of course I did it for you! And for me, too. I’m getting too old to play James Dean.”

She looked up, met his eyes, and in the silent exchange read the message he was giving her: He was ready to grow up, to give up his bad-boy persona, to move away from the
past. The realization both touched and excited her. Maybe a future for the two of them was less impossible than she had thought.

“You look fantastic.”

“Thank you. You look pretty good yourself.” He glanced down at Stan, who was staring blankly off into space, walked around the wheelchair, put his hand under Rachel’s chin, and turned her face up for his kiss. It was brief and hard and possessive. Rachel, dazzled by its effect, turned, tiptoeing, to wrap her arms around his neck and return the favor. A chorus of giggles stopped her in her tracks. She looked around, her face crimsoning.

Johnny grinned down at her as she sank back on her heels. Loren and Lisa, with Katie between them, stood close by watching and snickering.

“Is he your new boyfriend, Aunt Rachel?” Loren asked, wide-eyed.

Rachel had thought that it was not possible for her blush to get any hotter, but she discovered she was wrong.

“Yes, I am,” Johnny answered for her, smiling at the girls. “And you must be Lisa,” he pointed, “and Loren, and Katie.”

“How’d you know our names? Aunt Rachel, did you tell him?”

Rachel, recovering her poise, shook her head. “This is Mr. Harris, girls.”

Johnny’s sidelong glance held a degree of amused surprise. “I’m not used to being called Mister. They can call me Johnny if they want.”

Rachel shook her head. “Mr. Harris,” she said firmly to her nieces. Then, to Johnny, “It’s a mark of respect. They call all adults Mr. or Mrs., except for relatives.”

“I see.” He grinned at her. “I’ll try to get used to it. But don’t be surprised if I don’t answer the first few times they speak to me.”

“That’s okay. As long as you answer when I do.”

“Depends on what you call me.”

Rachel made a face at him. Taking him by the hand, she walked around in front of the wheelchair. Johnny glanced at her questioningly, but she was looking down at her father and did not notice.

“Daddy, this is Johnny Harris,” Rachel said in a quiet voice that was nonetheless insistent.

Stan continued to stare at nothing. His face was pale and expressionless, and his hands rested without moving on the blanket that covered his lap.

“Hello, Mr. Grant.”

But Johnny’s words had no more effect than Rachel’s. Rachel stared down at her father as hope turned to resignation. He had not heard her. He would never know Johnny, and the realization brought with it a sense of loss.

“He used to be so—funny,” she said over her shoulder to Johnny, who squeezed her hand with silent sympathy. “Bigger than life, always on the go, cracking jokes and cutting up, and—” Her voice faltered.

“Actually, I remember him from when I was a little kid,” Johnny said, to Rachel’s surprise. “I was always afraid of him. He was such a big man, with his deep, booming voice. I remember one time I was in your hardware store cramming bubblegum into my pockets, and he said something behind me. Boomed it out. Just the sound of his voice scared me silly. I looked around, ready to run, certain I’d been caught red-handed, and discovered that he wasn’t even talking to me. Boy, was that a relief! And did I hightail it out of there! And I never stole another thing from Mr. Grant’s store, either.”

Rachel knew her face must have been a study as she stared up at him.
“You
shoplifted from our store?”

Johnny grinned down at her. “I shoplifted from every store in town. Your dad coming up behind me was the closest I ever got to being caught.”

“You’re kidding!” Rachel pulled her hand from his.

He laughed. Amusement danced in his blue eyes. “No, Rachel, I am not kidding. You didn’t think I was a choirboy,
did you? As far as I know, the only thing I’m rumored to have done that I’m innocent of is murder. I never killed anybody. But the rest—yeah, it’s pretty much true.”

“Johnny Harris! No wonder you were so sympathetic to Jeremy!”

“Why’d you think?”

“Because you are a kind, caring human being who couldn’t bear to see a child turned over to the police?”

“That, too. But I kept thinking that it could have been me sitting there, a long time ago.”

Rachel spluttered wordlessly.

“Of course, I’m totally reformed,” Johnny continued. His grin faded and he added in a more serious voice, “I talked to my lawyer yesterday. He said that with the evidence the police have, he can get the murder conviction expunged from my record. If he’s right, I won’t be a felon anymore.”

“Really?” Rachel started to smile.

“Yeah, really.” He grinned back at her. “Good news, huh? But you don’t know the best of it yet.”

“What’s the best of it?”

Johnny shook his head. “I’ll tell you after we eat. Your mother sent me out to round you and your nieces up.”

“You’ve talked to Mother?”

“Oh, yeah. And Becky, too. And I drank some tea.”

Rachel glanced down at her watch. “It’s just now two o’clock. What time did you get here?”

“A little early,” he said with a rueful grimace.

“Was Mother—did you and she—?”

“Your mother,” Johnny said, “is a remarkable woman. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

“Oh, lord. Was she rude?”

“Not at all. Just—forceful. I think I could grow to like your mother.”

Rachel, pushing the wheelchair, eyed him askance. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I now know from whence you got your
spunk, Rachel the lion-hearted. I don’t think either you or your mother realizes that you’re just about five foot nothing and that a strong puff of wind—to say nothing of a full-grown man—could carry you off without even trying.”

Rachel started to reply, but Becky appeared just then on the patio, beckoning impatiently.

“Mother’s got lunch ready! Come on!”

The girls scampered toward their mother. Johnny insisted on pushing Stan up the elaborate system of ramps that led to the house, and he and Rachel were not far behind.

Lunch was served at the table so Rachel had ample opportunity to observe Johnny interacting with her family during the meal. Thanks to Becky, there was only water and wine glasses on the table, and the silverware had been kept to the bare minimum of salad and dinner forks, soup and dessert spoons, and steak and butter knives. Rachel had discarded the notion of trying to educate Johnny in the delicate art of table manners in preparation for today’s lunch, so she was surprised and relieved when he unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap when he sat down and passed the food to the rest of them without a hitch. When he used the correct plate for his roll, broke the warm puff in two with his fingers, and even removed a pat of butter from the communal dish to his bread plate before spreading it, she was impressed. When he flawlessly chose the correct utensil for each course, she was amazed. It was all she could do not to goggle at him as he managed course after course as if he’d sat down to such meals every day of his life. Her mother, who’d been watching him like a hawk at the start, was so reassured by his performance that she actually took her eyes off him for long periods of time as she lovingly fed Stan, who sat in his wheelchair beside her.

“Do you enjoy working at the hardware store?” Elisabeth asked Johnny as she expertly spooned a little soup into Stan’s mouth.

“Not really,” he answered. “Though I don’t imagine I’ll be there much longer.”

“Oh?” It was Elisabeth who asked the question, though Rachel and Becky both looked at him in surprise.

“I’ve been thinking about going back to school.”

“Really?” Rachel asked, while Elisabeth said at the same time, “Going
back
to school? Oh, you must mean attending college.”

“Actually, I meant law school.” Johnny consumed a bite of steak Diane as casually as if he hadn’t made an announcement that Rachel, for one, considered momentous.

“Law school?”
All three women spoke at the same time, with the same intonation. They glanced at each other, then focused as one on Johnny. He continued eating his steak, unconcerned. The girls, schooled to silence when eating with adults in the dining room, looked up from their own meal, their attention caught by the sound of their elders’ amazement.

“Yeah.” Johnny took a sip of wine and grinned directly at Rachel. “Don’t you think I’d make a good lawyer?”

“But, Johnny—” she began, then broke off as she realized that this was something better discussed between the two of them in private. But he seemed to have no such reservations.

“That’s many years down the road, surely? First you must get through college—and they don’t allow convicted felons in any of the law schools I ever heard of.” Elisabeth stopped feeding Stan to frown at Johnny.

“I have a college degree,” Johnny said, his expression serene as he cut another bite of steak. “I earned a bachelor of arts in comparative literature while I was in prison. Besides working on a state road crew, taking college correspondence courses was how I passed the time. And if my lawyer is correct, I won’t be a convicted felon much longer.”

“What?” Elisabeth sounded stunned.

“The police are convinced that whoever killed Glenda
Watkins also killed Marybeth Edwards. Everything about the murders, from the depth and severity of the wounds, which point to the same murder weapon, to the flowers strewn over the bodies, are virtually identical. I was with Rachel when Glenda was killed. So that lets me off the hook on the other rap as well. My lawyer says that with that kind of evidence, coupled with the fact that they never had any physical evidence on me to begin with, it should be fairly easy to get the record expunged.”