Until There Was You (9 page)

Nothing but a bag of bones. Built like a ten-year-old boy.

There was a 7-11 on the main road, about a mile from Whitfield Mansion’s entrance. By the time she reached the store, she was shuddering with cold. She fished a quarter out of her purse and deposited it in the pay phone outside and called her brother.

“Henry?” she whispered when he answered. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, but I need you to come get me. And can you bring me some dry clothes?” Then she started to cry in earnest.

She hid in the potato chip section, dripping onto the floor, until Henry came. Then she changed in the 7-11 bathroom, and her brother took her out to a diner two towns over, and she sobbed out the whole story over a hamburger club with extra fries, from her love for Liam to the comment about Guten Tag’s cleanliness. For once, Henry’s lack of conversational skills was a blessing.

“I’m sorry, Posey,” was all he said. But he reminded the waitress that she’d need extra mayo on the side and didn’t protest when she told him they needed to stay out till past eleven, knowing that Max and Stacia wouldn’t be able to stay awake that long no matter what.

“You can’t tell Mom and Dad, okay?” Posey asked as they pulled in front of their house. Their parents’ windows were dark.

“Okay,” he said. Then he hugged her—such a rare event—and waited till she was showered and in bed before going to bed himself, just in case she needed anything. The next morning, she told her parents she’d had a great time, but ended up with a headache, and called Henry to come get her just before the end of the night. They bought it.

Emma called that same day. “I told everyone I was really disappointed you’d gotten sick,” she said, her voice horribly kind. “I told them what a great friend you’ve been, and it was just crappy luck that you got one of your migraines. But also that you were totally cool about Rick and Jess. You were only in it for the dress anyway, right?”

Posey understood. Emma was using her popularity as a shield, and if anyone was going to make fun of Posey, they’d suffer her disapproval. Not that anyone would really believe the story. But back at school, no one openly made fun of Posey, and though she’d been dreading hearing echoes of Liam’s words, she wasn’t subjected to them again. She stopped going to Sweetie Sue’s for ice cream, because she just didn’t want to see the pity in Emma’s eyes.

She didn’t see Liam until five days after the prom, at the restaurant, where for the first time ever, he initiated conversation. “Heard you got sick at the prom.”

Why would he talk to her
now?
“Yeah.”

“You okay now?”

“I’m fine.” Her voice was calm and cool.

Then she packed her books, told her parents she’d see them at home. For the last month of her sophomore year, she told her mom she was better able to do her homework back at the house. She found herself studying harder, raising her hand more often, walking through the halls with an edge she hadn’t had before. She barely saw Liam, and that August, he left for California.

That moment when she’d crouched behind the tree…it did something to her, something that made her grow up and toughen up. But one question throbbed in her brain for a long, long time. Why? Why would Liam say something so hateful? How could he—who had tamed a stray and starving cat—be so cruel to a girl who had only ever wanted to be his friend?

“A
LOT OF US REMEMBER
Liam from way back, of course.” The president of the chamber of commerce stretched her lips in a smile so insincere that Liam actually winced. Maya Chu. Yep. He’d slept with her—or came close, he couldn’t quite remember—back in the day. “So we’re thrilled—thrilled, I tell you—that he’s back. Yeah. Super to have a new business in this building. So, best of luck and all that, Liam. Here’s to the success of Granite Motorcycle Garage or whatever.”

Grand openings were just not his thing in general, but being introduced by a woman who clearly wanted to stick a pin in his eye—or some other soft part—kind of put a damper on things. But the garage looked great—all the machinery set up and gleaming, a few cool bike designs, matted and framed, hanging on the wall. In the far bay was the big Chevy truck and trailer he used to pick up and deliver bikes, his logo stenciled on the side. And there, right in the middle of the garage, currently being fawned over by a dozen or so people, were two custom bikes he’d built in California and his own special-edition Triumph.

But Nicole was supposed to have come right after school, and she wasn’t here. And wasn’t answering her phone. As he shook hands and accepted congratulations, he mentally reviewed her schedule. Lacrosse practice on Monday and Tuesday, debate team on Thursday…nothing on Friday. So where was she?

“Hi, I’m Bruce. Bruce Schmottlach. I met you at Guten Tag the other night, remember? I also taught band at the high school, though I don’t think I had you. You played guitar, right?”

“Right,” Liam said, surprised. “Thanks for coming.”

“So, I was out for a run the other day,” Bruce said, “maybe six, seven miles out of town on Cemetery Road, and some future organ donor flew past me on a Harley, must’ve been doing over a hundred miles an hour, no helmet. That wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” Liam answered, glancing again at his phone. Still no return call or text from Nicole. “I wear a helmet. And I don’t ride a Harley.” Or any bike, since the accident.

“Okay. Well, whoever it was, he’ll be dead soon, and the world will be a little safer. Oops, my wife is giving me the sign. Nice seeing you, son.”

“Same here, sir.”

The man wasn’t the only one with an elephant-like memory. In the weeks since he’d been back, he’d heard from seven women who remembered him from high school and wanted to take him out for a drink for old times’ sake. He’d run into at least that many women who seemed to want to knee him in the balls, including Maya Chu, who kept shooting him the Slitty Eyes of Death.

Just about every business owner in the downtown had come to his grand opening. The Osterhagens, the woman from the yarn shop (how she paid her rent was a mystery to Liam. Yarn? How much yarn would you have to sell to make a living?), Rose, the owner of Rosebud’s, the local bar, who’d made a pass at him last week…the guy from the bookstore.

“Is this your bike?” asked a woman about his age. Redhead, short hair, gorgeous. And not interested in him, if his gaydar was working properly. He felt his shoulders relax a little.

“That’s my bike,” he answered. “A 2009 T100 50th Anniversary Bonneville Triumph. All the glamour of old, all the comfort of today.”

“Pretty gorgeous,” she said. “Lola! We should get a bike, don’t you think? I’m Kelsey, this is my partner, Lola, and we run the bakery down the street.”

“Great bagels,” he said.

“Thanks. Lola, doesn’t this place make you want a bike? We’ve been talking about it for a while. You could make us matching rides, couldn’t you?”

“I sure could,” Liam said, smiling. See? Not every woman hated him or wanted to do him. He should find more lesbians to hang out with.

“Let’s do it,” Lola said. “You’re right, babe. Life is short.”

“Shorter if you ride a motorcycle,” someone said. Ah. Mrs. Osterhagen. “But Liam, you’ll be careful, right? You don’t want to die in some horrible accident and leave that beautiful girl of yours an orphan. Poor thing’s suffered enough.”

Liam found his shirt was suddenly clammy, and his heart was squeezing in painfully slow, crushing beats. “Speaking of my daughter, I have to, uh, check in. Back in a flash.”

He ran into his office and called her cell. Voice mail, damn it. “Nicole, this is your father. Where are you, honey? It’s the grand opening, I was hoping you’d be here. Call me.” Then he called their home phone and left the same message.

He took a deep breath. He’d give this opening about ten more minutes; then he had to find his daughter. The second he left his office, a woman pounced. “Hi, Liam. Long time no see.”

Oh, shit. Another one. “Hey. How are you?” he said, wracking his brain for a name, a memory. Nada. Maybe because he’d lived in so many places, maybe because he’d been away for almost twenty years, but hell, he just didn’t have the same recall as Bellsford residents seemed to.

“So, I couldn’t help thinking about that time in Mr. Bowie’s history class, you know?”

“Um…yeah. Sure.” Nope, still nothing. But obviously he’d gone to school with this woman, even if she looked fifty—three chins, lank hair, those weird square glasses that made women look like they wanted to kick something.

“So, maybe we could grab a beer sometime, catch up? I’m divorced. No kids.”

“That’s really nice of you, but my daughter needs a lot of…you know…time. And attention.”

“Sorry about Emma, by the way.” She lifted her skinny eyebrows—
We’re both single, get it?
Sorry, his ass. For all her popularity in high school, women didn’t seem to miss Emma all that much. Well. Cordelia Osterhagen had gotten all teary-eyed. That had been…sincere.

“So, how about it, Liam? I still have that tattoo you-know-where.”

Eesh. “I have to run. Nice seeing you,” he said. He went out into the garage and cleared his throat loudly. “Okay, guys, thanks for coming and checking out the place. Um…we’re available for motorcycle repair, customizing your existing bike or building you something from scratch. Great seeing everyone. I’m sure we’ll run into each other around town. Thanks again.”

“Oh, and Liam, if you don’t mind…” Max Osterhagen stood on a crate. “Tonight, folks, as you might know, Guten Tag is welcoming back our wonderful niece, Gretchen Heidelberg, also known as the Barefoot Fraulein from TV! So please come by, open bar, lots of great food, and stay till you’re stuffed! And meet our famous and beautiful niece!”

At the mention of “open bar,” the garage began to empty. Finally.

One more call. But his daughter, his baby, his precious angel, the one thing he’d done right in his entire life, still wasn’t answering. “Nicole, it’s me,” he said trying to sound calm and authoritative and not in full-blown panic. “I’m on my way home. Call me if you get this. Be there in a sec.”

Maybe she was texting the nice boy. Or listening to music, so she didn’t hear either the landline or her cell, which was usually glued to her hands. Or she was in the shower. Or being held at gunpoint. Or lying in the trunk of a Buick, wrists and ankles wrapped in duct tape, about to be tossed in the river, wondering why, oh, why her dad hadn’t charged to her rescue, as fathers were supposed to.

He left the garage at a run, waving to a few people as he dodged down the brick sidewalks. Past the bakery with the biker-chick owners, past the head shop, past the Italian restaurant that always smelled so good. Down the little alley, onto Court Street. It was 1.7 miles from the garage, which was the last business in the downtown section of Bellsford, to home. The sweat that plastered Liam’s shirt to his back had less to do with the fact that he was running and much more with the fact that he was…yes, it was certain now…freaking out. The rational part of his brain knew his worst fears had very slim odds of being realized. He was freaking out nonetheless. The sound of his footsteps on the pavement counted out the seconds till he could be sure Nicole was safe.

When Emma had died, it had been awful, of course. Eight months from diagnosis to death, eight months to try to prepare their child for heartbreak. The shock of grief is perhaps the worst part, that stunning realization that your time with this person is simply up. No arguing, no bargaining, no maybe tomorrows. Over.

But he and Nicole had done okay, so long as “okay” was a relative term. They’d gone for some grief counseling; she’d joined a group made up of kids who’d lost a parent, and he’d joined something similar for spouses. Life didn’t change so much as shrink. It had been awful…but also manageable. Were there times when Nicole had sobbed in his arms, inconsolable? Of course. Nights when Liam had sat at the kitchen table with a glass of whiskey, unable to set foot in their bedroom? Yep. But there were other times when Nic had come home from school and giggled over her math teacher’s polyester shirt. Nights when Liam had gone to bed and fallen right asleep.

His main focus had been Nicole, getting her through the worst parts, being father and mother both, adjusting to the fact that no one would spell him, no one would ease the crushing responsibility of raising a child, no one else would love Nicole as much as he did. It was brutal. But he was getting through it.

Until the accident. Then everything got messed up somehow. And Nicole, who didn’t even know there’d
been
an accident, was starting to sense weakness, and when a kid senses weakness, and that kid is fifteen years old, and way too beautiful and completely unaware of just how filthy were the thoughts of men, and when she wanted some freedom and some space…well…things weren’t so
manageable
anymore.

There. The apartment building was just ahead. Liam sprinted the last block and burst into the foyer, then, because the elevator gave him some major
agita
lately, bolted up the stairs. One flight…two…three…shit, he was getting old, this was taking forever, his legs felt like lead… What if he had a heart attack right here on the landing…four…and Nicole found his dead body…five.

Liam burst into the small hallway that separated the apartments and dug in his pocket for the key.

“Liam? Is that you?” A small gray head peeked out from underneath the security chain on 5B.

“Hi, Mrs. Antonelli, can’t talk now.”

“Well, I saw you running all the way down the street! Look at you! Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. Just a little late, that’s all.” He flashed her a smile and went in. “Nicole? Nic? You around, hon?”

No answer.

He ran down the hall to her room. “Nicole?” Shoved the door open.

“Dad! Could you, like, knock? Don’t I get some privacy around here?”

There she was, his baby. Earbuds in, eating popcorn, lying on her bed and looking at a magazine, not in the trunk of some car, not duct-taped, not at the bottom of a river.

“I called you.” He was panting, sounding, yeah, like he might drop dead any second.

“Oh. Guess I didn’t hear.”

“Nicole, you have to answer the phone if I call!” he barked.

“Dad, I said I was sorry!”

“No, you didn’t!”

“I’m
sorry
.” She finally looked up. “You okay?” Her face creased in a frown. “Daddy, you’re all sweaty.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a whack job,” she said, returning her attention to the magazine. “What, did you think there’d been, like, a break-in?”

“No,” Liam said, still panting like a dying racehorse. “Nope, just felt like running. Exercise. Stay healthy. You know. But I was glad to see you locked the door. Good girl. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Whatever.”

“No, not
whatever,
Nicole. You always lock the door. The dead bolt and the doorknob lock and the safety chain.”

“O
kay,
Dad. I will lock the door against the alien hordes, I swear to God.” She gave him an ironic smile, looking so much like Emma that it made his chest ache even more.

“So, I thought you were coming today, Nic.”

“Coming to what?” She flipped the page and cooed over an outfit.

“Nicole, today was the opening of the garage. It would’ve been nice if you’d been there.”

His daughter frowned. “I thought it was on the twenty-first.”

“No. It was today. The twelfth.”

She heaved herself off the bed and went to the kitchen, where the calendar of their daily events hung in the pantry closet. “Look, Dad. Right here, your handwriting, the twenty-first.” She gave him a fond smile. “You messed up, Captain Dyslexia.”

Liam stared at the calendar. She was right.

“Sorry I missed it, Daddy.”

“That’s why I called you. A lot.”

She pulled her phone from her jacket, which hung over the back of a kitchen chair, no matter how many times he’d told her to hang it up properly. “Oh. Wow. Eleven times. That’s really neurotic.” Another tolerant smile.

“Nicole, it’s not funny. You really have to answer the phone. I was worried.”

“Dad. Please. I’m almost sixteen.”

“Exactly.” Liam went to the sink and washed his hands—fifty-five seconds—and then splashed water on his face.

“So,” Nicole said. “I have that party tonight at the Graftons’, remember? And I’m sleeping over?”

Liam exhaled slowly and tossed the paper towels in the trash. “Right. Except we need to rethink that.”

Nicole’s tolerant mood evaporated instantly. Her hands went to her hips, and her chin jutted out, just as it had when she was three. “Dad, you told me last week I could go! You said! You promised!”

“I didn’t promise. I said yes, but it was conditional.”

“No! It wasn’t!”

“Look,” he said carefully. “I don’t really know the Graftons—”

“Mrs. Grafton called you! Twice! You met her at the band concert!”

“Right, but what do I know about her really? And this party… Are there guns in the house? Dogs that bite? Alcohol?”

“No, no, and yes. No guns. A cockapoo puppy, so I don’t think anyone’s going to get, like, mauled. And yes, they have alcohol, Dad, the parents are allowed to drink, but it’s not like they’re going to serve us martinis, okay?”

Liam sighed and looked at the ceiling. “Something’s come up. The Osterhagens are having a party tonight at the restaurant, and they want us both to come. They like you.” It was true. Liam had taken Nicole to Guten Tag for dinner last week, and both Osterhagens had fussed over her. Him, too, which had been kind of nice.