The boy scrambled up and over the fence just as Callie
McCarran opened the back door. Sun glinted off his short,
silvery-blond hair before he dropped out of sight into the
vacant lot next door.
"Hey," Callie called, but it was too late. The kid
couldn't be more than seven or eight, but he was a quick
little guy. It was the second time she'd seen him in the
yard in the two days she'd been back in town, which seemed
odd, since there was nothing of interest back
here.…But then she noticed the baseball-size hole in
the porch screen, which was quite possibly related to the
baseball lying under the wicker chair.
Callie bent down to get it.
"I found your ball," she called. Nothing. Shaking
her head, she went out into the overgrown grass and set it
on the empty birdbath.
"It's on the birdbath," she yelled, in case the kid
was crouching on the other side of the fence. "I'm going
in the house now." She walked a few steps, then added,
"And I'm not mad about the hole." The entire porch
needed to be rescreened before she could sell the house, so
no big deal.
Callie went back into the classic 1980s kitchen, complete
with country-blue ruffled curtains at the windows and
cow-decorated canisters on the cream-colored countertops.
She poured a glass of tap water and drank it all without
setting the glass down. She'd cried a lot during the past
few days and no matter how much water she drank, she felt
dehydrated. But she had held up during the memorial service,
thank goodness, because if she had broken down, the good
townspeople would have added "hypocrite" to her list
of epithets. They were already treating her like a leper.
Okay, leper was probably too strong of a word. People had
been pleasant enough, offering the obligatory condolences,
but she'd been aware of the undercurrents, the
why-the-hell-weren't-you-there-for-your-foster-mother-in-her-time-of-need
undercurrents. And no one spent much time talking to her. A
few murmured words, then off to join other more legitimate
mourners standing in small groups near the buffet. Following
the service, Callie had spent most of the time alone beside
the podium, waiting for the moment when she could leave.
Grace's accountant had stood with her for a while, but
Callie had a feeling that was only because she was paying
him, or rather the estate was paying him, to take care of
the final bills. Even he eventually drifted away.
Damn it, I would have been there for Grace, if I'd known
how sick she was.
She hadn't known…and she hadn't exactly tried to find
out, either. Instead she had stayed with her
once-in-a-lifetime trip through Kazakhstan. Attached to a
geologic field tour, she'd been chronicling the economic
growth and environmental pitfalls since foreign companies
had been allowed to mine there.
She was still quite angry with Grace for not telling her she
was terminal. That while treating her for a chronic stomach
disorder, the doctor had discovered an inoperable malignant
growth. But really, Callie hadn't wanted to know the truth.
She'd been afraid to know.
The worst part was that she'd ignored the biggest red flag
of all: Grace had asked her to come back to Wesley when she
returned to the States. She hadn't been home in twelve
years, and in hindsight, Callie could see that Grace
wouldn't have made such a request without one hell of a good
reason—such as being in the process of dying.
Callie refilled the glass and walked to the back door,
peering through the window. The ball was still perched on
the birdbath. She wondered if the kid would come back or if
this was the last she'd see of him. If he did come and get
the ball, she hoped he'd play with it somewhere else.
Not that she'd be here.
But then again, maybe she would. For the first time in a
long time, Callie felt no desire to move on. No need to find
the next city to explore, the next story to
write…maybe because she hadn't written anything
except her contracted Kazakhstan article since receiving
news of Grace's death.
Callie pressed the cool glass to her cheek. This was the
second time she'd suffered such a loss, and it wasn't any
easier than the first. Just different.
Her father had disappeared when she was six, leaving her
with Grace, his distant cousin and only relative. A business
trip. Except he'd never returned. Now she'd lost the only
other parent she'd even known.
She set the glass in the sink and went to her old bedroom,
now a guest room, and pulled her dark blue knit dress over
her head and tossed it on the bed. None of her clothes
wrinkled. She traveled too much to buy anything that
couldn't be crumpled into a ball and shoved into a suitcase.
She traveled with only a carry-on bag whenever possible,
because she hated dealing with extra baggage. No extra
belongings, no extra people. Just the bare minimum.
But Grace hadn't been extra baggage.
Callie sank down onto the bed and stared at the wall
opposite. She should have made more of an effort. Should
have, should have, should have…
The room had been pale green when she'd lived here. She'd
wanted lavender, a color Grace could not abide.
Callie had begged, but the room had remained green, because
Grace said there was no way she was having that much
lavender in her house.
Now the walls were apricot.
Which meant…?
Nothing. It meant that it had been time to paint and Grace
had chosen a different color.
Restless, Callie got up and paced back into the living room
in her underwear. It was hot and no one was likely to stop
by to visit the ungrateful foster child.
A magazine lay folded back on itself on the maple end table
next to Grace's blue velvet recliner. Her slippers were on
the floor next to the chair. Grace was everywhere and nowhere.
And the house was so freaking quiet.
Callie had to get out. Regain her equilibrium so she could
deal with stuff that two weeks ago she had no idea she'd be
dealing with.
A few minutes later, dressed in cropped khaki pants,
flip-flops and a light pink T-shirt, she all but bolted down
the walk. There weren't many places to go in Wesley, Nevada,
but she'd find somewhere.
"Callie!" Alice Krenshaw was standing on her porch
next door, still wearing the black muumuulike dress she'd
worn to the memorial, a copper watering can in her plump
hand. "Are you all right?" she asked, probably out
of a sense of duty, because she hadn't been friendly at the
funeral.
"Fine," Callie called back, not slowing her pace.
Maybe later she'd talk to Alice, but right now she didn't
want to talk to anyone. She saw her shake her head as Callie
got into her borrowed Neon, read the disapproval in the gesture.
She started the engine and pulled out onto the street,
having no idea where she was going. For the first
time…ever…she wasn't entirely sure that being
accountable to no one but herself was a good thing.
Right now Callie wouldn't mind leaning on someone, and there
was only one person in town who might agree to prop her up,
but she had fences to mend there first. A minor repair, she
hoped. After all, twelve years had passed, and surely by now
Nate would have come to the conclusion that what she'd done
had been for the best.
"Did you hear me, Mr. Marcenek?"
Nathan Marcenek took off his glasses and rubbed a hand over
his eyes, his vision blurry from staring at a computer
screen for too long. When he focused on Joy Wong, the
receptionist for the Wesley Star newspaper, she
blinked at him expectantly.
"Callie's here?" He hadn't seen this one coming. In
fact, he'd been surprised to hear she'd come back for the
service, since she hadn't set foot in Wesley since abruptly
leaving town, and him, the day after high school graduation.
Even Grace's illness hadn't brought her home.
"Send her in," Nathan said, wishing he'd had the
foresight to hide a flask of whisky in his desk drawer for
occasions such as these. He had a feeling he might want a
stiff belt after this unexpected meeting was over.
Joy nodded and disappeared into the hall. He heard her say,
"First door on the left," and then a moment later
the woman he could have quite happily gone the rest of his
life without seeing again walked into his office. And if
anything, she was more striking than he remembered.
Her dark blond hair was shorter than it'd been in high
school, curving along her shoulders instead of falling down
her back, and the freckles over her nose had faded. But her
eyes were the same. Closer to aqua than blue; her gaze
direct and candid. Or so it seemed. Nathan had learned the
hard way that Callie was a master at hiding things.
"Hi, Nate," she said, her voice husky.
"Callie." He stood, his leg protesting the movement
less than usual. Adrenaline mixed with testosterone was
amazing stuff. "It's been a while," he said,
uttering the understatement of the year. He sat back down
without offering his hand or cheek, or whatever one offered
to an ex-friend/girlfriend who'd proved to be less than
trustworthy, and gestured to the chairs on the other side of
the desk.
Callie appeared unfazed by his lack of warmth. She would
have been a fool if she had expected him to welcome her with
open arms and Callie was anything but a fool.
She took a seat on the only chair that didn't have papers or
books stacked on it, and set her small leather backpack on
the tiled floor next to her feet. When she focused on him
again, her expression was more businesslike, as if she'd
changed tactics, which instantly put him on edge. Tactics
meant a mission, and Nathan wasn't going to be involved with
any Callie missions.
"I was surprised to hear you were editing the
Star," she said as she folded her hands in her
lap, obviously more comfortable with this reunion than he
was. "The last I'd heard you were working as a reporter
in Seattle."
So she knew something about his career. Nathan waited,
wondering if she was also aware that he'd been injured on
that particular job. Rather spectacularly injured, in fact.
The story had gone national, but the incident had been
followed almost immediately by a huge government scandal
that had stolen the headlines for weeks.
Callie waited for his reply to her small-talk opening, and
after a few seconds he began to relax. She didn't know.
There would be no token murmurs of sympathy. No suspicions
that he'd tried to live in the fast lane and had gotten the
snot knocked out of him. Callie was the last person he
wanted to know about that, since honestly, the way she'd
dumped him without ever looking back had been part of the
reason he'd tried to be less boring.
"I took this job fourteen months ago."
"Where were you before that?"
"Here and there. How about you?" he asked, trying to
figure out what was going on. Surely she wasn't here cashing
in on old-friend status? If so, she was bordering on
delusional. Friends were people you could trust. Friends
didn't do what she'd done. "Where've you been working?"
The better question would have been where hadn't
she been working? Callie never stayed in one place
long. He hadn't consciously followed her career—pretty
much the opposite, in fact—but Grace had been proud of
the foster daughter who never came to visit, and made sure
everyone knew where Callie was working.
"Same places as you," she replied. "Here and
there. Funny we didn't meet." She didn't exactly smile,
but the dimple appeared near the corner of her mouth. Even
now it charmed the hell out of him, which in turn ticked him
off.
"Yeah." The polite game was over. He didn't smile
back, but instead held her gaze, waiting for her to explain
the reason for her visit as he absently rubbed the muscles
of his right thigh.
Callie sat in stubborn silence on the other side of his
desk, studying him. He wondered how he was stacking up to
the guy she'd dumped after graduation. Finally, he gave in
and said, "I'm sorry about Grace."
"Thank you. It was a shock."
Nathan didn't try to hold back the snort. The culmination of
a terminal cancer diagnosis had been a shock? That pissed
him off. "She'd been sick for a long time," he
pointed out none too gently. "Where were you?"
The color left her cheeks, but her eyes flashed. "I
didn't know about the cancer, all right?"
He guessed he shouldn't have been surprised, although he
found it hard to believe that none of Grace's friends had
tried to contact her. "Did you try to find out?"
"She told me she was doing fine, that they'd just
changed her treatments. I thought I had time to finish the
project I was working on." Callie cleared her throat,
the first indication that perhaps she wasn't as cool and
collected as she wanted him to believe. "If I'd had any
idea how serious it was, I would have been here."
Nathan wondered. He took off his reading glasses, holding
them by the bow. "So," he said briskly, making the
change of topic sound like a brushoff, "once the estate
is settled, where are you heading off to?"
"Nowhere."
His jaw tightened. He didn't want her in town, didn't want
to be around her. Didn't like being reminded of those days
when he'd gone through hell wondering why she'd left. Why
she wouldn't take his calls. Not the best of times for a kid
who was struggling with self-image issues, issues his dad
wasn't exactly helping him with.
"You're keeping the house?" His voice was amazingly
cool considering what his blood pressure was doing.