Somewhere Along the Way (34 page)

“Are there any more?” he asked. He wasn’t sure he could take it if there were. Both works showed the face only in shadow, but the body build, the hair, even the color of clothes was his.

“No. I’m finished. Two was all I planned to do.”

“And we’re finished, right?”

“Right.” She moved away from him. Folded her arms as if blocking him from her thoughts. She looked out at the storm as though simply waiting for him to leave.

“You were just using me.” He felt like the biggest fool in the world. Of course she was using him, that’s why they never talked. She didn’t want a lover, or even a friend, she wanted a victim for her latest work. “Admit it, Claire. I’m just someone who came along and was convenient to use for a model.”

“I let you touch me,” she said as if in defense. “I let you play it out any way you wanted. I would have let you go further in the paying of my dues, but you stopped both times. In the end I knew you wanted more than I have to give, but what you gave me will go down as some of my best work.”

For years he’d been just playing at loving, figuring it was just a game and everyone knew the rules. All the one-night stands, the affairs that were counted in lost weekends, the quick encounters never meant to mean anything, came back to him. Mocking him.

Finally, he’d met a woman he thought knew nothing about the game, and she’d played him completely. He’d thought she’d been on the way to real love for him, and all he’d been to her was something to be used.

Anger finally boiled over in Denver, and he swung around toward her, fighting down a yell that would shake the house.

She covered her head and ducked, curling into a ball at his feet.

Denver stared at her. “You think I’m going to hit you, don’t you?”

She lowered one arm enough to look at him.

“You don’t know me at all, Claire. For once in my life I wasn’t playing and I wasn’t just touching you. Idiot that I am, I thought I was loving you.” He turned and stormed out of the attic and down the flights of stairs. He was in the Land Rover before he drew in a breath. She’d not only murdered him on canvas, she’d left him dead inside for real. He’d finally let himself believe in a tiny hope that he might have a real life. A life he shared with someone. She’d shattered that possibility and left him hollow.

He drove slowly back to Gabe’s farm without bothering to turn on the heater. He felt like he was frozen from the inside out. Somewhere in the silent white of the storm, his hurt had turned to anger, not toward Claire, but toward himself.

FRIDAY, 2:00 P.M.
FEBRUARY 22, 2008
HARMONY FIRE STATION

MARTHA Q WATCHED AS TWO YOUNG MEN STORMED INTO the fire station. They were laughing and joking around as if the snow shovels were swords, reminding her of two mighty crusaders returning from battle. For a moment she just watched, waiting for them to see her.

“I thought we’d never get that last car out.” One shook off snow like a dog does water.

“Me either. I considered telling the guy I’d pay his parking ticket if he wanted to just leave it on the median until spring.” The second one tugged off his heavy coat and hung it on a peg. “Thanks for coming along, Bran. I’d still be out there if you hadn’t.”

Both stopped as they saw Martha Q.

When neither spoke, she smiled and announced, “I cooked lunch for an army and no one came. I hope you boys are hungry.”

The first one, maybe two years older than his buddy, laughed. “You bet, lady. We’re starving.” He began removing the first layer of thick winter clothes. “Thank you for coming. I’m Willie Davis. Everyone’s probably like us, running late, but they’ll all be hungry when they make it in.”

Brandon took his lead from Willie. “I’m Brandon Biggs. This is my first day as a volunteer. It sure does smell good.”

Both were down to sweaters and stocking feet by now. Martha Q moved aside and called, “Well, come and get it. Me and Mrs. Biggs have been cooking all morning.”

Brandon glanced in Mrs. Biggs’s direction, shrugged, and kept pulling off his outer layer of clothes.

The boys washed up and sat down as two more teams of volunteer firemen came in. Suddenly, the place was loud with laughter and stories.

Martha Q served, talking to the men as if she’d known every one of them since birth, but she kept her eye on Mrs. Biggs. The quiet lady hadn’t taken her eyes off Brandon Biggs since he’d said his name.

Finally, when the men were all packing food in as fast as possible, Martha Q had her chance. “Brandon, you kin to any Biggses from Harmony?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. None that would claim me, anyway. I don’t know much about my dad. Never even heard Mom say where he was from. My mom said he didn’t have any family. He was never around us much either. We heard he died years ago.”

Martha Q shrugged as she passed the bread around. “I thought you might be related to Mrs. Biggs here.”

Brandon looked sad as he faced the thin woman near the stove. “I’m sorry, ma’am. My brother and I are the last of our line. Like I said, my dad died and he didn’t have any kin left.”

The woman nodded her understanding. “I know how you feel.”

Martha Q wasn’t ready to let hope die. “What was your daddy’s name, Brandon? Maybe he’s a relative Mrs. Biggs forgot.”

“My mother rarely talked about him except to say he showed up about as often as a bad cold, but I remember her calling him Andy.”

Mrs. Biggs straightened. “Brice Andrew Biggs.”

“Yeah,” Brandon said. “That’s what’s on my birth certificate. Did you know him?”

Everyone had stopped talking and was listening to the conversation. They all looked at Mrs. Biggs.

The thin woman raised her head and said simply, “He was my son. My only child.”

Then, before anyone could move, she crumbled to the floor.

All the men except Brandon scrambled to help the old lady. They lifted her up as she came to, helped her into a chair, got her water, and asked her questions about how she felt.

“I’m fine,” she whispered.

Finally, Martha Q ordered them all back in their seats so the poor woman could get enough air around her to breathe. While the men went back to their meals, Brandon stood and walked over to Mrs. Biggs.

He got down on one knee and looked at her carefully as if trying to see the truth in her eyes. “Lady,” he said in a whisper, “are you trying to tell me you are my grandmother? My father’s mother?”

Mrs. Biggs touched his cheek lightly. “You look a little like Andy did when he was your age. That was about the time my husband died and he said he never wanted to speak to me again. He was so angry. He blamed me for his dad’s death. I moved away, always planning to come back when he cooled down, but the time never seemed right. The few times I tried calling, he never answered. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry for me.” Brandon shook his head. “I barely remember my old man. He was a drunk with a temper. He never took any time to care about me. My one goal in life is to grow up to be better than him.”

One of the men answered the phone while Brandon stared at the old lady.

Martha Q could see the hurt in both their eyes. As she always did, she stepped in without being invited. “Brandon, maybe you could come to breakfast at the inn tomorrow morning. The two of you could talk.”

“I guess I could do that,” Brandon said. “But, lady, I got to tell you straight out. I never had much luck with relatives, and I’m not looking to add one.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Biggs whispered. “Just breakfast.”

A moment later, the man on the phone yelled, “Hank’s on the line. He says Old Man Truman had a heart attack. They’re taking him into surgery right now. He’ll keep us informed.”

Bob McNabb, the oldest of the volunteers, came farther into the kitchen. “Hank would want us to keep going. With half the men still at the pileup on the interstate, the rest of us have to take the calls. I’ll man the phone and keep in contact with you all. We’ve got to do our job now or people might die.”

Brandon stood. “I need to get to Reagan. We’re friends.”

McNabb shook his head. “You’d only be helping her wait. The old man could be in surgery for hours. We need you here. I’ll phone you the minute I hear something and Willie will drive you out to the hospital. Fair enough?”

Brandon hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. Rea would probably want me to help out here. She thinks this whole town belongs to her personally.” As the others headed toward their coats, Brandon added to Mrs. Biggs, “Thanks for the meal. We could talk later. I’d like to know what my dad was like. I never heard one good thing from my mom.”

“I’d like that too.” She touched his cheek again with the palm of her hand.

Brandon ran to join the others, and for the first time Martha Q saw Mrs. Biggs smile.

Martha started banging around the room, knowing that if she stopped to think about what just happened she’d probably cry. “Come on, Mrs. Biggs, let’s get this place cleaned up so we can get home and make these boys some cookies.”

Mrs. Biggs nodded.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON
FEBRUARY 22, 2008
LEARY FARM

GABE LEARY WATCHED HIS FRIEND COME INTO THE HOUSE, knowing that he was back far too soon for it to have gone well. Denver went straight to the cabinet, where he stocked a few bottles of whiskey, and poured himself a drink.

Gabe went back to work, ignoring him for a half hour, then said, “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Fine. I’ve got to pack up some pages and get them in the mail.” Gabe had to think of something to do. Even risking his life on icy roads sounded better than sitting around watching his buddy get drunk.

Denver didn’t look like he was listening. He was too busy pouring himself another drink.

“Want to ride along into town with me? That way if I get stuck, I’ll have someone to push.”

“Sure. Why not, better than staying here alone.”

Denver finally looked up. His eyes were already blood-shot. Another hour and his army buddy would be spread out on the floor too drunk to make it to bed.

Gabe reached for his coat. “How bad were the roads?”

“I didn’t notice,” Denver answered.

“Great,” Gabe said, thinking he hadn’t really meant it when he and Elizabeth joked about Claire killing Denver. Apparently, she had.

Five minutes and another drink later, they headed into town. Gabe didn’t break the silence. With the snow, he felt like the whole world was silent. They didn’t see another car on the road.

Denver sat in the Land Rover while Gabe went into the post office. He usually made his trips at night and used the drop box. Interacting with people was not his strong point.

The man behind the counter looked at the envelope being express mailed. “So, any chance you are G. L. Smith, I mean the G. L. Smith, the writer? I’ve seen these envelopes before, but they’re usually dropped in the box.”

“No, I just post his mail.” Gabe didn’t want to talk, but he was trapped.

“Oh, I figured that. You don’t look much like a writer. I’d guess you’re a farmer.” The man smiled, showing a mouth in great need of dental work. “I’m right ninety-nine percent of the time, you know, on guessing people. I can tell an accountant from a bank teller and a librarian from a science teacher, and that’s not easy.”

“That’s me, the farmer. You’re right, you’re very good at guessing,” Gabe said, hating the words. “I have a farm a few miles away.”

“Wouldn’t want to tell me where Smith lives?”

“Not a chance.”

The postmaster finished with all the stamps and Gabe paid with cash.

Gabe didn’t ask until he had his change in hand, “You know of a G. L. Smith, do you?”

The man nodded. “My grandson reads all his work. Says he’s a master. Me, I prefer my novels without pictures, but I got to tell you, my grandson wasn’t reading until he found them graphic novels. I bought him a few comics; now he’s reading every time I see him. If I ever meet the man, I’m going to ask if my grandson could just say hello. A guy like that has no idea what he means to readers. He may only be saving the world in print, but he’s giving people hours of adventure right in the comfort of their home.”

“Thanks.” Gabe backed away. “I’ll tell Smith if I see him.”