Sleeping in Eden (41 page)

“Maybe I'm in remission.” She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “It's hard being in the Midwest and sticking to my diet. Instead of sushi bars you have greasy spoons. Instead of multigrain muesli you have . . .” She fumbled, waving her hands in aggravation. “You have Mrs. What's-her-name's homemade blubber bread.”

“Mrs. Van Egdom. And I believe it's banana bread.”

“Whatever. I'm in a shitty mood. Don't mess with me.”

Lucas knew better than to ignore that warning, and he drove straight to the small restaurant without provoking her further, even though it would have been a good outlet for his growing tension.

Giovanni's didn't have a parking lot, so Lucas parallel-parked in front of the small restaurant, even though the painted lines were so faded, he couldn't make out where one space began and another ended. He didn't worry about tickets in Blackhawk because Alex was known to tear up citations for people who he believed deserved second, third, and fourth chances. Lucas was one of them. But Sutton was an unknown entity, and as he left his car at the curb, he hoped any cop would see the out-of-county plates and be gracious.

While the exterior of the restaurant featured the same unimaginative brick as the rest of the shops on Sutton's main drag, the interior was a different story altogether. Giovanni's was too unapologetic to be cliché, and as Lucas took in the red-checked tablecloths, the faint strains of accordion music in the background, and the old black-and-white vintage photos vying for space on every wall, he knew without being told that a proud immigrant family owned and operated what seemed to be Sutton's only restaurant. The place was nearly empty, and for a moment Lucas was surprised. But then he remembered that it was barely five o'clock and people were likely just getting off work. Besides, if the large sign over the takeout counter was any indication, it appeared most people preferred to dine at home.

“Two?” An apron-clad waiter approached Lucas and Angela as they stood in the doorway, absorbing their surroundings.

“Yes,” Lucas said, smiling at the friendly-looking man. He had olive skin and dark eyes, and his glossy hair was slightly longer than the current style and parted down one side with a ruler-straight line. The owner's son? Lucas silently guessed.

“Is a booth okay?”

Lucas nodded, and the waiter grabbed two menus from the hostess stand before leading them to a table next to the frosted window. As Lucas slid onto the bench, he noticed a faint, cool vapor coming off the glass, but he didn't mind because someone had cranked the heat in the restaurant and it was so warm he was already shrugging out of his lined coat.

“Here you are.” The waiter pulled a long-handled lighter from the pocket of his apron and lit a white candle in the center of the small table. Lucas fought an urge to blow it out; it felt too intimate, too datelike. But before he could come up with an excuse to extinguish the flame, the waiter offered him a bifold menu and began to point out the specials. “Tonight is spaghetti night, all you can eat, with breadsticks and Caesar salad—all homemade, of course. We also have an assortment of subs, meatball is very popular, and we're famous for our pizza. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

Lucas ordered a Coke, Angela bottled water, and the waiter left them to study their menus.

“I already know what I'm having,” Angela announced, closing her menu and turning it facedown on the table in front of her.

“Salad?”

“The spaghetti special,” she corrected him. “With a meatball. But if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll be forced to kill you in your sleep.”

“As a doctor, I have to admit that I'll be glad to see you eat something more substantial than tofu for once. You look anemic to me.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm just saying.”

Though most of the tables at Giovanni's were empty, it took a long time for their waiter to come back. Since they didn't want to talk about the thread of anxiety that stretched between them, linking them to each other and to all that had happened and was about to happen, Lucas and Angela studied the homespun menus, commenting on the mosaic of photographs that covered the front and back and pointing out interesting portraits to each other.

There were fuzzy black and whites that bore creases from age and showcased the smooth faces of unsmiling young couples. Some photographs highlighted important events in the history of Sutton: a group of men standing around a brand-new fire engine that bore the town's name, a handful of people cutting the ribbon on an unmarked building, a still life of the Welcome to Sutton sign surrounded by wild pink roses. And a few pictures seemed more recent. Angela was drawn to one on the front cover of the menu, a group of girls standing on a brown field, faces and arms muddied with dirt, a scuffed football held high between them.

“You like our Girls' Football League?” the waiter asked, a grin in his voice and a Coke and water in hand as he seemingly materialized out of thin air.

Angela smiled. “Is that what this is? I love powderpuff.”

“Oh, no, no. They didn't play powderpuff.” His lips still curled as he remedied her false assumption, but there was something sad in his eyes that stopped Angela from questioning him further.

Lucas ordered for both of them, ignoring Angela's scowl and requesting two specials that appeared in half the time it took the waiter to bring their drinks. The breadsticks were hot, the salad served family-style in an oversize bowl, and the pasta was thick and saucy and steaming.

“It's not as good as Jenna's,” Lucas commented when there were only a few lone noodles left curling on the bottom of his plate.

But Angela wasn't listening. In spite of her self-professed hunger, she barely ate, electing instead to play with her food and sneak regular peeks at the phone on her lap. Lucas knew what she was doing; he could feel the frantic energy shivering off her as minutes ticked by on the digital clock she kept consulting, but he wasn't about to let her frustration unnerve him. He didn't know what, if anything, awaited them at the empty house they had so recently left, but he did know that they would approach it a second time on his terms. His way.

“You're going to stay in the car,” he told her.

Angela's head popped up. She looked startled. Almost scared.

“I don't think you can handle this,” Lucas continued. “You're too emotionally invested. I'm going to the door this time.”

“No way,” Angela spat. “Absolutely no way.”

“You don't have a choice.” Lucas held his fist above the table, keys clutched in his palm. “We're not going back if you don't agree to this.”

Angela's glare was white-hot and deadly. “I hate you.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way,” Lucas said, but his tone was perfectly flat and unemotional. He realized with a start that he sounded exactly like a father weathering a teenage daughter's tantrums. He smiled. “Regardless of your feelings for me, the fact remains: we're not going back unless you swear to stay in the car until I tell you otherwise.”

“No.”

“Then it's back to Blackhawk.” Lucas threw a few bills on the table and stood abruptly. He grabbed his coat off the hook on the end of the booth and was halfway to the door before Angela stopped him.

“Fine, I'll stay in the bloody car,” she hissed.

“I thought you'd see things my way.” Lucas offered her his arm, but she batted it away and swept out the door before him. It slammed shut, disturbing the air and leaving the faint scent of perfume and warm skin in her wake. It smelled like fear to Lucas. But he didn't mind her anxiety.

For the first time in a very long time, he felt completely in control. Capable of handling whatever storm their rookie sleuthing had stirred up. And he could definitely sense dark clouds on the horizon.

Lucas squared his shoulders and followed Angela out into the night.

T
he storm came slowly, flirting with the horizon as it danced, two steps forward, one step back. Clouds swirled like ink in dark water, and lightning rumbled menacingly in the distance. Dylan kept the air conditioner on low to ward off the clinging insistence of the humidity, and though Meg welcomed the sharp edge of cold that whispered from the vents, she couldn't stop shivering. When Dylan saw her trembling, he offered her a blanket that he had wedged beneath his bench seat. She declined, convinced that it wouldn't stop her from quivering anyway.

“I can't believe I'm doing this,” Meg said more than once as Dylan's truck ate up the miles on the interstate.

“Why not?” he laughed, reaching a hand across the seat as if to touch her. But it felt like a lifetime had passed since they had enjoyed that sort of freedom, and he wrapped his fingers around the gearshift as a tangible alternative. “The Meg I used to know wouldn't think twice about embarking on an adventure like this.”

She didn't bother to tell him that she wasn't the girl he used to know. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked instead, leaning forward to catch his eye even though he was driving.

“Sure,” he said with an attempt at an indifferent shrug. “Yeah, why not? Besides, we're kind of stuck now. Your plane is
scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes. Even if we could make it back to Omaha in time, they'd never let you on board.”

Meg put her hands to her mouth to stop a wave of panic that made her stomach lurch. What was she doing? Had she no sense? A part of her wanted to demand that he turn around this very instant, that he take her home. But then, as she watched the dim lines of his profile, Dylan stole a look at her out of the corner of his eye. In the glow of the dashboard lights, she could see the raw joy in his face, the delight at the unexpected gift of her presence. The entire situation was downright absurd, and yet, here he was beside her, smiling the same smile that she hadn't even realized she dreamed about until she saw it again, in the flesh, directed at her.

He was here, wasn't he? Wasn't there a certain beauty in that? Wasn't there something pure and special in the serendipity of their meeting and the doors that it so astonishingly opened? Dylan had surprised her again. What could she do with that but count it fate? Maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was a gift.

Meg shook her head to dispel the doubt that continued to fog her mind with a cloying sense of surrealism. “I can't believe I'm letting you drive me across the county,” she said.

“It's going to be fun,” Dylan assured her. “A reunion. Old friends. For old times' sake.”

“I'm going to miss work.”

“Bah,” Dylan scoffed. “What's a couple of days? Call them in the morning and explain you've been delayed. They'll understand. Besides, how long can it take to drive to California? I'll fuel up on coffee and energy drinks and go through the night. Or we'll take the scenic route. Haven't you always wanted to see Yellowstone?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“But what? This is the chance of a lifetime.”

“I start school in—”

“Two weeks. You'll be fine.”

“You're sure you won't be missed?”

“My classes start the same time as yours, and I had Guard last weekend. No roommate to worry, no plans . . . I crash where I want to and wander at will.” Dylan winked at her, obviously fond of his life and his freedom.

It was an invitation to ask, and be asked, to go over the details of their lives like the intricate chapters of a mysterious book. They passed the minutes talking, filling up every potentially awkward pause with chatter that was anything but mundane. For Meg, those first interactions in the cab of Dylan's truck were the deliberate wanderings of an explorer happening upon the same secret haven twice. What had changed? What had stayed the same? What had survived the process of his growth and maturation and yet remained as a faint indication of the boy that he had been?

“Tell me something different,” Meg entreated. “Where have you been? What have you really been doing since I saw you last?”

“I already explained everything,” Dylan said. And it was true. In the last hour and a half they had spent together in his pickup, they had been over it all, from basic training to active duty to some sense of constancy in the 114th Fighter Wing. But Meg made him tell it again and again, and every time he repeated the particulars of his life, she learned a little more. New details emerged like planks on a bridge that they were gradually building to span the gap of all the years between them.

By the time the first raindrops began to splatter on the windshield, Meg felt as if she knew who Dylan was and where he had been. Or, at least, she knew a part of it, and it was enough to make her believe that the rash decision she had made in the drop-off lane at Eppley Airfield had been a good one. Maybe it hadn't been the wisest choice, but in getting to know Dylan again, she believed that it contained the potential for good all the same.