The Hero’s Sin (5 page)

Her mind raced with possibilities. Was she the reason he’d changed his mind about staying in town? Had he thought about her even a fraction as much as she’d thought about him?

“Aunt Felicia, this is Sara Brenneman, the attorney I was telling you about,” he said. “Sara, this is my great-aunt, Felicia Feldman.”

Sara knew so little about Michael, she hadn’t been aware he had a great-aunt. Calling upon her professionalism, she got to her feet and came across the room intending to shake hands with the older woman. Instead of a hand, Mrs. Feldman held out the manila envelope.

“Michael said you might look at this for me.” Her voice shook even more than her hands, lending her an air of frailty. “It’s a foreclosure notice. He said you could tell us if there’s anything I can do about it.”

The reason for Michael’s reappearance slammed through Sara, and disappointment rushed through her like the white water of a river rapid. Michael’s visit wasn’t personal, it was business.

“I hope it’s okay that we came by,” Michael said. “I tried calling but your phones still aren’t working.”

“It’s fine,” Sara said, cheering herself with the fact that Michael had thought to come to her.

“The bank’s going to foreclose if Aunt Felicia doesn’t pay what she owes,” Michael said. “Unfortunately she didn’t know the loan was in default because the bills were coming to her husband’s P.O. box. He died three months ago.”

His aunt stood at his side, looking miserable. With foreclosures on the rise across the nation, the desperation emanating from her was something Sara had encountered before. She opened the envelope and took out the Notice of Intent to Foreclose, which seemed harsh under the circumstances.

“In my experience—”

The door opened again, this time admitting a heavyset man with a clipboard. From the smears of paint on his jeans, he could only be the contractor.

“I’m from Lehigh Painting,” he announced in a gruff, hurried voice. “You need the entire downstairs painted, right?”

“Right.” Sara was about to tell him to show himself around, but he’d already disappeared into the back of the office.

“Sorry about the interruption. I was about to say lenders don’t want to foreclose because it costs them money in the long run. Taxes. Broker fees. Property maintenance until they can sell.” Sara noted from the letterhead that the bank was independent and locally owned. “So they’re usually open to working something out. Have you contacted the bank yet, Mrs. Feldman?”

“They said it was too late to do anything,” Mrs. Feldman said, twisting her hands.

“Who said that? A loan officer?”

“I think that’s what he was.”

“It would be better to deal with the branch manager or even the bank president.” Sara put the notice back in the envelope. “I can give the bank a call, if you like, and set up a meeting. We can try to get them to refinance the loan. If that doesn’t work out, we’ll try to get a loan from another institution.”

“I still might not be able to afford the payments,” Mrs. Feldman said unhappily.

Michael put his hand on his aunt’s back. The comforting gesture wasn’t directed at her, but Sara’s heart melted a little.

“We’ll worry about that later,” Michael told her. “I’m sure Sara’s had experience with cases like yours.”

“I have, but I should admit I’m not yet up to speed on Pennsylvania law,” Sara said. “I’d have to do some
research first, but I’m willing to help if you still want me to.”

“Sounds good to me,” Michael said.

“Wait.” Mrs. Feldman blinked a few times, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “I need to know how much it will cost.”

Because of Mrs. Feldman’s dire circumstances, Sara quoted an hourly rate well below what was fair. The woman’s face still blanched. Michael must have noticed because he quickly said, “I’ll take care of it, Aunt Felicia.”

“No,” she said forcefully, then continued in a softer, shakier voice. “I can’t let you do that, Michael. Not after the way…I just can’t let you.”

Sara wondered at the source of the guilt written plainly on Mrs. Feldman’s face, but it was just one more unknown in the mystery of Michael Donahue.

“I’ve got that estimate for you.” The contractor appeared from the back of the office, handing Sara a piece of paper. The quote was as distressingly high as the other estimates. “We could fit you in late next week.”

“But I need the work finished by Monday,” Sara said.

“Impossible. Summer’s our busy season. Give us a call, but don’t wait too long.” He headed out the door without a goodbye, leaving Sara staring after him.

“I swear if I didn’t need that drywall repaired, I’d paint the office myself,” Sara muttered under her breath.

“I’ll do it,” Michael offered. “I know my way around drywall and I’ve done my fair share of painting. If you help out my aunt, I won’t charge for labor.”

“I thought you were leaving town,” Sara said.

“Not until this problem of my aunt’s is solved,” he said. “So what do you say?”

Sara didn’t need to think about it long. “Yes.”

“No, Michael,” Mrs. Feldman interjected. “I can’t ask you to do that for me.”

“You didn’t ask. I offered.” He was putting a spin on his proposal so his aunt would accept his help, Sara realized, wondering at the strain she picked up between them.

Mrs. Feldman chewed her lower lip, appearing unsure whether to accept even though the prospect of losing her home had to be a powerful motivator. “So what can I do for you?”

“You don’t have to do anything for me,” Michael replied.

“How about if I make you a strawberry pie tonight? That was always your favorite. I’ll make roast beef and those mashed potatoes you like, too.” She turned to Sara. “Why don’t you have dinner with us, Sara?”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Sara said, fighting the urge to accept.

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” Michael said so quickly Sara suspected he didn’t want to have dinner alone with his aunt. “Please come, Sara.”

“Thank you,” she said, ignoring her suspicion in favor of believing Michael wanted to have dinner with her. “I will.”

Q
UINCY
C
OLEMAN
sat at his usual booth at Jimmy’s Diner on Monday morning and ordered a breakfast of an egg-white omelet, whole wheat toast and fresh melon slices. He skipped the coffee for orange juice, a much healthier option.

“How long you been ordering the same thing, Quincy?” Ellie Marson tore the top sheet from her order pad, regarding him with one hand on her hip. Her hair had yet to gray and her energy was high, but she’d probably gained twenty pounds in the past twenty years. Quincy prided himself on weighing the same.

“About as long as you’ve been taking my order, Ellie,” Quincy said.

She laughed her raspy smoker’s laugh. “That may be, but I still start work at six and you’ve been getting here later and later. The crowd you used to eat with left an hour ago.”

The diner, in fact, was nearly deserted except for a young couple with kids and a pair of hiker types. Probably tourists. The hands on the clock above the counter were inching past ten-thirty, too soon for the lunch crowd.

“You’re jealous because you get up early to come to work, and I can sleep in and take my morning hike before you stop serving breakfast,” Quincy said.

“You got that right.” Ellie headed off to the back of the restaurant, barking an order to the cook as she went.

Quincy caught his reflection in the mirror behind the counter. With his trim build and the suit jacket he always wore when he came into town, he looked damned good for a sixty-six-year-old man.

Appearances, he’d always stressed to his family, were important.

He wouldn’t let anyone guess how miserable he’d been since he’d retired as the president of Indigo Springs Bank a year ago. He’d been unhappy before then, too, but his demanding job had occupied his mind. He still
served on the bank’s board of directors, but now there were too many hours in the day to think about what he’d lost.

His beautiful daughter Chrissy, who’d died before she had a chance to really live.

And his wife Jill, who’d walked out on their marriage shortly after Chrissy died.

He rubbed at his eyes, wiping away tears before they had a chance to fall. Ellie returned with his breakfast so quickly the cook must have started his order as soon as Quincy arrived. She put the steaming plate of food in front of him, and he breathed in the scent of egg and toast.

Ellie cocked a hand on one rounded hip. “I suppose you heard Michael Donahue was at Johnny Pollock’s wedding?”

“I did.” He controlled his temper and offered Ellie the same response he’d given the four people who’d phoned him with the news. “It’s a free country. I can’t stop him from coming where he’s not wanted. I’m just glad he’s gone.”

“He’s not gone,” Ellie refuted. “I had a customer this morning who saw him and his aunt go into that new lawyer’s office on Main Street.”

“He can’t be meaning to stay!” The words erupted from Quincy like lava from a volcano. The family of tourists stopped eating and stared at him.

“Whoa! Don’t shoot the messenger. Just passing on what I heard.” She backed away from the table, stopping to check on the nosy tourists on the way to the kitchen, leaving Quincy alone with his thoughts.

His turbulent, roiling thoughts.

Michael Donahue was still in town.

Michael Donahue, who’d as good as signed Chrissy’s death warrant when he stole her away from Indigo Springs.

Hatred flamed inside Quincy, hotter than fire.

Donahue should never have come back. Quincy would make him wish he’d stayed away.

T
HE ROAST BEEF
was tender, the home-style gravy and mashed potatoes delectable and the strawberry pie transcendent, but Michael had never been more eager for a meal to end.

His great-aunt obviously felt the same way. She rose from the sturdy white table in her brightly decorated kitchen to clear their dessert dishes even though Sara had another bite of pie left.

“Thank you for the delicious meal, Mrs. Feldman.” Sara was still holding her fork. Michael thought she’d been about to stab the last morsel of pie when his aunt took her plate away. “Let me help you clean up.”

“Oh, no. You’re a guest.” Aunt Felicia couldn’t have sounded more horrified if Sara had proposed tossing the dirty dishes in the trash. “It’s such a nice night. You and Michael go sit on the porch.”

It sounded more like an order than a request, which Michael supposed it was, one he was glad to obey. When they were outside, he sat down on his aunt’s pine swing, which hung from large hooks screwed into the porch ceiling, and rolled his shoulders, wishing away the tension.

Sara sat down next to him, running her fingers over
the smooth hardwood of the armrest. Tonight she looked beautiful in a sleeveless crinkled cotton dress in khaki green, but Michael had already figured out she’d look striking no matter what she wore.

“I’m going to buy one of these swings for my deck,” she said. “Then I’ll stock up on mint juleps, never mind that this is the north. Mint juleps just seem like something you should drink while sitting on a porch swing. Don’t look at me like that.”

She slapped him lightly on the arm, her smile charmingly embarrassed. He couldn’t help smiling back. Something about her—hell,
everything
about her—lifted his spirits higher than they’d been in years. “Like what?”

“Like I’m…corny,” she supplied. “But I guess I can’t expect you to understand, with you not being a porch-swing kind of guy.”

“I don’t know about that. I spent a lot of time on this very swing.” He scuffed his foot against the wood floor, sending the swing rocking. “I used to come out here at night, turn off the light and just swing and swing.”

“So this isn’t the first time your aunt chased you out here?” Sara asked rhetorically. “Um, did I say something wrong tonight?”

He decided to be honest. “You asked too many questions.”

“What? How is asking Felicia whether she grew up in Indigo Springs and when she got married asking too many questions?”

Aunt Felicia had initially been forthcoming, telling Sara about being raised in this very house, about Murray moving in after they got married, about staying on after her parents died.

It was all good information, allowing Sara to understand how much the house meant to her. The manager of the Indigo Springs Bank was on vacation until Friday, but Sara was now determined to fight harder at the meeting she’d scheduled to make sure his aunt kept her home.

“Those questions weren’t the problem,” Michael said. “She didn’t want to talk about me.”

Aunt Felicia had clammed up after Sara asked about how she and Michael were related. Surely Sara had noticed. She’d revealed that her late sister was Michael’s grandmother, then shut up.

“Why didn’t she want to talk about you?” Sara asked.

He let the swing rock back and forth until it came to a stop. Sara had been fishing for answers since he’d met her, and it was time he provided some of them.

“I moved in with her after my mother died. I was sixteen but I’d only met her once, when she came to visit us in Florida. It was pretty obvious from the start that my being here was making trouble for her.”

“Trouble? How?”

“Aunt Felicia’s husband didn’t want me living with them.”

“You mean your uncle?”

“I never thought of him as my uncle, and he sure didn’t treat me like a nephew. The day I turned eighteen, he told me to leave.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Whatever for?”

“He said he didn’t need a reason.” He recited what he remembered of Murray’s speech without emotion. When it came to Murray, he’d never been emotional.
“An eighteen year old was an adult and should be able to fend for himself.”

“That’s really callous.” Her voice was full of empathy. “What did your aunt say?”

Ah, his aunt. She was the one who’d mattered. “She said she was sorry.”

Sara placed a hand on his arm. In the light from the porch he could see her eyes were soft with compassion for the boy he’d been. “Now I understand why you and your aunt are uncomfortable around each other.”

“So you noticed?” He kept his voice light. Just barely. His aunt never forgot to send cards at Christmas and on his birthday, but that was the extent of her interest in him. “Before last weekend, I hadn’t seen her since I left town.”

“Is that what you did after Murray kicked you out? Left town?”

“Not right away,” he said. “The Pollocks took me in. Mr. Pollock even gave me a job. I already knew, though, that I wouldn’t stick around for long.”

“Where did you go when you left Indigo Springs?”

Tell her,
Michael thought.
Tell her you didn’t leave alone.

But that wasn’t what she had asked.

“Johnstown. It’s a couple of hundred miles west of here. I went to community college at night and worked construction during the day.”

Everything he told her was true, but vastly misleading at the same time because he was leaving out so much.

Chrissy leaving Indigo Springs with him.

Chrissy growing increasingly unhappy away from everything she’d ever known.

Chrissy dying.

It was a miracle somebody in town hadn’t told her about it before now. That left it up to him to tell her.

Right now.

Except Sara leaned over and kissed him. Her fingers spiked through his hair, cradling his scalp, holding his head in place so she could fasten her mouth more securely to his.

He’d been trying not to think about the last time she’d kissed him, but this kiss brought the feelings she’d stirred up bursting to the surface.

He might have fooled himself into believing he’d stayed in town only because of his aunt, but that wasn’t true.

The more compelling reason was in his arms.

She tasted of the strawberries from his aunt’s pie, but he’d sampled her kisses before and knew they’d always be sweet.

She parted her lips, and he accepted her silent invitation, deepening the kiss with an erotic slide of tongue on tongue. His body hardened, his erection straining against the denim of his jeans.

A phone rang inside the house, a jarring reminder that they were on a lighted porch where anybody who happened to be passing by could see them, but he couldn’t seem to stop kissing her, as though she were a drug of which he couldn’t get enough.

“Michael.” His aunt’s voice followed by the creak of the screen door finally gave him the resolve he needed to break the kiss.

Sara’s eyes were closed, appropriate because she didn’t know exactly who it was she’d been kissing.

“Oh. Excuse me.” Aunt Felicia took one look at them and backed away. “I didn’t know…I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s okay, Aunt Felicia.” Michael was pleased with the even tone of his voice, especially since he didn’t feel in control at all. Sara edged away from him, but only slightly. “What is it?”

“The phone…” Her voice trailed off again.

“What about the phone?” Michael prodded as gently as he could, hiding his frustration. Not so much at the interruption as his own inability to put a halt to the kiss. “Who was it?”

“He didn’t say.” She seemed reluctant to continue. “He said…he said I should tell you that you should never have come back.”

“Well, of all the nerve.” Sara fumed, the first thing she’d said since the kiss. “Did you check caller ID?”

“I don’t have caller ID,” Aunt Felicia said. “And I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“Anybody cowardly enough not to identify himself doesn’t deserve to be listened to.” Sara sounded like the lawyer she was, confident and sure of herself. “Just forget he ever called.”

“That’s not all,” Aunt Felicia ventured. “He said Michael should check his car.”

Michael was out of the swing almost before she finished the sentence, striding down the steps and to the curb where he’d parked the PT Cruiser. The rental was between street lamps, more in shadow than in light. Something about the car seemed off-kilter. As he neared, he realized the reason. The body of the car sat much lower to the street than it should.

“Somebody slashed your tires!” Sara ran ahead of
him to the car. “Can you believe it? Who would do something like this?”

Michael could come up with a dozen candidates, with Kenny Grieb topping the list. There weren’t many people in town who wouldn’t think he had worse things coming to him than slashed tires.

“Well, they’re not getting away with it.” Sara pulled a razor-thin cell phone from the deep pocket of her dress and flipped up the cover.

Michael closed his hands over hers. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the police.”

“No.”

“No?” Even though it was dark, he could see white all around her pupils. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll take care of it. My rental insurance should cover the damage.”

“Somebody deliberately slashed your tires!” She said the words slowly as though he didn’t grasp the full import of what had happened.

He had a much better idea than she did.

“It’s not worth making a big deal over,” he said.

“It is if the vandal’s still out there slashing somebody else’s tires!”

Michael walked to the Volkswagen parked behind the PT Cruiser, verifying its tires were fine. So, too, were the tires on the Chevy across the street. “It’s only my car.”

“You can’t possibly know that!”

But he did. He’d have known it without the anonymous call. “Drop it, Sara.”

“This is something that should be reported, not
dropped. It doesn’t matter if you’re the only one who had his tires slashed. It’s a crime, and criminals should suffer consequences.”

She sounded like a lawyer in a courtroom fighting for truth, justice and the American way. A lawyer without all the facts. She got her phone in position to dial again.

“I said butt out, Sara,” he said tightly. “It’s not your problem. Not your business.”

His harsh words sliced through the night. She recoiled. A weaker woman might have surrendered to tears, but a blankness descended over Sara’s face.

“I need to be going.” The warmth was gone from her voice, something that Michael could only blame on himself. “Please thank your aunt again for dinner.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” Michael offered.

“No need for that. Good-night.” She walked stiffly away, obviously angry.

He smothered the urge to chase her and explain, but it was best she didn’t get involved with his problems. And she wouldn’t, if he could stay away from her for four more days. With any luck, his aunt’s trouble would be over after that meeting at the bank on Friday.

Now all he had to figure out was how to keep his distance from a woman he desperately wanted while working downstairs from where she lived.

T
HE SOLES
of Sara’s running shoes squeaked as she walked back and forth over the hardwood floors of her office. She’d gotten quite a workout on the hilly three-mile jog she’d taken to start the morning and needed to cool down gradually.

She was not pacing.

She was not nervous about meeting Michael in—she checked her watch—less than fifteen minutes.

She was not going to forgive him for last night simply because she wanted to kiss him again.

After she gave him a key to the downstairs, she’d work from upstairs until he was finished with the job so she didn’t have to see him any more than was necessary.

“At least I’m not a complete liar,” she muttered aloud. “Because I do want to kiss him again.”

Through the open blinds of the window facing the street she spotted a silver-colored Cadillac pulling up to the curb. A small, trim man of about sixty wearing a dark business suit, his gray hair slicked back from an angular, stern face, got out of the car. Then he headed purposefully toward her office.

“Oh, crap.” Her hand flew to her ponytail, but taking down her hair wouldn’t come close to making herself look presentable.

She plastered on a professional smile when he entered the office, as though she greeted every potential client while wearing gym shorts, a sleeveless tank top and running shoes.

“Hello. I’m Sara Brenneman.” She stopped short of offering her hand, but only because she was sure it was damp. “As you can see, I haven’t yet officially opened my practice. However, I am available for consultation. Although not, obviously, right now.”

He didn’t return her smile. Neither did he bother to pull the door shut behind him.

“I’m not here to hire you, young lady,” he said gruffly. “I’m here to welcome you to Indigo Springs.”

He didn’t sound very welcoming.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’m Quincy Coleman.”

Quincy Coleman. She’d heard his name before, it seemed in relation to Michael. Yes, that was right. The men she’d overheard outside the church had been speculating about what Coleman would do when he found out Michael was back in town.

“It’s very neighborly of you to come by,” she said.

He stood statue-still, his body between her and the open door so he blotted out the sunlight. “Indigo Springs is overrun with tourists in the summer, but it’s still the kind of place where neighbors look out for neighbors.”

His words should have sounded kind, but they had a hard, unpleasant edge.

“That’s one reason I moved here,” Sara said.

“Good to hear, because I’ve got a
friendly
piece of advice.” His angry eyes bored into hers. “If you want to be successful in this town, stay away from Michael Donahue.”

“Excuse me?” She’d sensed he was driving at something unpleasant, had even guessed it involved Michael, but could never have anticipated the stark hatred emanating from him.

“Everybody knows you were with Donahue at Johnny Pollock’s wedding and that you were at his aunt’s house last night.”