A Gift from the Past (3 page)

But now, at twenty-five, tiny lines had appeared, fanning out from his startling green eyes, and there was a sheen of worldliness about him that merely added to his physical appeal.

“Anyway, I didn't realize just how bad it was until he wrecked his police car.” She looked out toward the yard, finding it easier to speak if she wasn't looking at him.

“The accident wasn't a bad one, but it convinced him he needed to see a doctor. We discovered he had diabetes, probably had had it for years and the degeneration in his eyes was massive.”

“Is there anything they can do? Any kind of operation?” he asked.

She shook her head, still keeping her gaze focused in the distance. “He's had two operations on his eyes, but they were unsuccessful. Anyway, over the last two years he's adjusted fairly well to the blindness. Then, last month he had a stroke. That's what put him in the wheelchair and he
hasn't been dealing very well with the new challenges.”

She didn't even realize Joshua had moved from his position until his hand closed around her forearm. “Why didn't you contact me and tell me what was going on?” His green eyes held the first stir of anger. “I had a right to know that he was ill.”

She jerked her arm away from his grasp and took a step back from him. You had no right. You lost your rights when you walked out, she wanted to say, but she didn't. “There was nothing you could do…nothing anyone could do. Besides, I'm handling things.”

“Handling things?” He gestured toward the yard. “That's certainly not the way I see it. It looks like everything is falling apart around you.”

“That's not true,” she protested. “I've just…just gotten a little behind with things.”

He studied her for a long moment. “You look tired, Claire, and you're too thin. Who is helping you care for Sarge?”

“I don't need help taking care of him. I told you, we're fine.” She raised her chin and for a moment their gazes remained locked. “I know Sarge issued an invitation for you to stay here, but I really think you'd be more comfortable at the motel.”

His eyes lightened in hue and a smile curved the corners of his lips. “Why, Cookie, you're almost making me think you don't want me here.”

“I don't want you here. This is Sarge's house…my home, and you chose to leave it a long time ago.”

“You made it impossible for me to stay,” he replied, the light in his eyes diminishing. “But I have no intention of rehashing the past.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “However, you're mistaken about one thing. Two years ago I paid off the mortgage on this house, and Sarge insisted I put it in my name. So, I'm really not intruding in your house, for the past two years, I've allowed you to live in mine.”

This was the second shock of the day, and Claire wondered how many of these she could take without having a breakdown of some sort. “Then, I guess I have no say as to whether you stay here or not,” she finally said, hoping her voice resonated with a nonchalance she didn't feel.

“Claire.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and took a step toward her. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, I'm not here to cause you grief. I'd say five years ago we pretty much exhausted that particular emotion.”

He drew a deep breath and looked away from her. “I'd like to spend some time with Sarge, and at least for the short period of time that I'm here, I could help you out a little. You know, maybe mow the lawn and do a little yard clean-up.”

“The spare bedroom is made up,” she finally said, knowing that she was being selfish in not
wanting him here. Sarge would enjoy his company and that should be all that was important. Surely she could handle his presence here for a few days as long as he didn't intend to talk about the past.

“I've got some things to do this afternoon. Why don't I come back here with my things after dinner, say about seven.”

“That will be fine,” she replied, weary resignation sweeping through her.

He turned to leave, but paused and turned back to face her. “Claire, it is good to see you again.” He didn't wait for her to reply, but instead turned once again and left, walking briskly down the sidewalk.

She sank down on the steps, watching until he was out of sight.

Joshua.

He'd been a teenager from the wrong side of the tracks, raised by an alcoholic uncle and she'd been the sheriff's granddaughter. They'd been fifteen when he'd first asked her out and on that very first date she fell hopelessly, helplessly in love with him.

She'd spent the last five years of her existence trying to forget him and everything that had happened in that last year of their marriage.

She stood and brushed off the seat of her pants, hoping he didn't intend to stay too long. One thing was certain, while he was here, she would keep her distance, both physically and emotionally.

She couldn't go back to that place in time, couldn't dwell in ancient memories. She feared that if she did, she would lose her mind to the grief and never surface again.

I
t was just after seven when Joshua returned to the house. He carried with him a large suitcase of clothing and his state-of-the-art laptop computer.

He was tired. He'd been tired for the last year. From the moment he'd left here five years earlier, he'd thrown himself into work, as if achieving success would banish his heartache. He'd worked long hours, seven days a week to make something of himself, to fill the lonely hours that would otherwise be painfully empty.

He wasn't sure whether it was his success or merely the passing of time that had finally healed some of the grief he'd left here with, but he no longer felt crippled by the weight of what had been lost.

In fact, it was time to move on and that's what had brought him back here. He had to resolve the past before he could forge ahead with his future.

Claire opened the door before he could knock, obviously expecting him. Gone was the anger and resentment that had sparked in her eyes earlier in the day. Apparently, she had resigned herself to him being here.

“Come on in,” she said and opened the door wider to allow him entry.

“Thanks.” He maneuvered through the door and dropped his suitcase just inside.

“Hey, Joshua, get your things stored away and come watch this quiz show with me,” Sarge said from his wheelchair in front of the television. “I want to see if I can still whip your butt at answering the questions.”

Joshua laughed. “Okay, just let me get settled in.” He turned to Claire. “Sit down and relax. I know the way to the spare room.” He picked up his suitcase and headed down the hallway.

The first door on the left was Sarge's bedroom. The first on the right was the room that he and Claire had shared during their marriage. The second door on the left was the bathroom and the last door on the right was the spare room.

As he approached the room where he would be staying, an unexpected knot of tension balled up in the pit of his stomach.

The door was closed and he hesitated a moment,
his hand on the knob. The last time he'd been in the room, there had been blue curtains at the window and a teddy-bear wallpaper border around the ceiling.

The room had smelled of little boy and been filled with all of Joshua's dreams, his hopes, his love.

Drawing a deep breath, he turned the knob and opened the door. White lacy curtains billowed at the window, bringing the scent of summer into the room. Pale-yellow walls matched the sunflower designs on the bedspread and accentuated the white wicker furniture.

There was no hint of baby's-breath-and-powder scent, no lingering reminder of the beloved child who had once slept here, played here.

He placed his suitcase and laptop next to the single bed, almost able to hear the childish giggles that had once filled this space.

Baby Sammy. Named after Sarge, Claire and Joshua's son had become the center of the universe on the day he'd been born. With Joshua's dark hair and Claire's smoky eyes, he'd been a little charmer with a ready smile and an easy disposition.

I miss you, Sammy, he thought. He missed Sammy and Claire and Sarge and the way things had been a long time ago.

“I just remembered that you like extra pillows.”

He whirled around to see Claire standing in the
doorway, two pillows clutched to her chest. She held them out to him.

“Yeah…thanks.” He took the pillows and tossed them on the bed, then walked to the window and peered out onto a backyard as tangled and overgrown as the front. “Do you have a lawn mower that works?” he asked and turned back to look at her.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You didn't come back here to mow the lawn.”

He smiled. “True, but if you remember, I used to enjoy yard work. I don't mind doing it, really. I spend most of the hours of my day sitting at a desk. The physical activity will be good for me.”

She uncrossed her arms and offered him a tentative smile. “Lately there just haven't seemed to be enough hours in the day to get everything done. Sarge doesn't like to be alone and he's been so cantankerous it's been hard to get people to sit with him.”

“Claire?” As if to prove her point, Sarge's voice rang out.

“We're coming,” she answered and together the two of them left the bedroom and returned to the living room. Joshua sat on the sofa, vaguely disappointed when Claire sat across the room in a chair instead of on the sofa with him. He wouldn't have minded if she'd sat close enough for him to smell her sweet fragrance.

The evening passed quickly. Although Sarge
couldn't see, his mind was sharp as a tack and he and Joshua battled each other answering questions on first one game show, then another.

During the commercials, they chatted and it didn't take long for Joshua to get a picture of what life had been like for these two during the past three years. Since Sarge's blindness, Claire's sole job was taking care of Sarge, and Joshua had a feeling there had been little time for leisure or fun in Claire's life.

It was also apparent from several things that Sarge said that money was always an issue, that between his small monthly checks and his medical needs, there was never any money for little extras.

If only Claire had cashed the checks he'd mailed to her, surely the extra money would have come in handy. But he knew why she hadn't. Claire had a healthy dose of pride; couple that with the hatred of him she'd professed when he'd left, and he'd never really been surprised that she'd refused any money he'd sent her.

It was just after nine when Sarge fell asleep in his chair and Claire said she needed to put him to bed. She wheeled him down the hallway and disappeared into his bedroom. Joshua waited a couple of minutes, then walked down the hallway.

When he looked into the bedroom, he saw Claire struggling to get Sarge from the wheelchair onto the bed. She'd already managed to take off the old man's shoes and socks.

“Come on, Sarge, you've got to help me here,” she murmured, her arms wrapped around the man's chest.

Joshua didn't hesitate. He gently moved her aside, then leaned down and scooped the thin man up in his arms and placed him on the bed. Sarge mumbled something incoherently in his sleep, then turned his head and began to snore.

“Thanks,” she murmured, although her voice held no gratitude, but rather an edge of resentment.

He nodded curtly. “You want him undressed?”

“No, he'll be fine for the night. In the morning I'll help him change his clothes.” She covered the sleeping man with a sheet, then she and Joshua left the bedroom.

“Would you come sit on the porch with me?” he asked. “It's a beautiful night and I'd like to talk to you.”

She frowned. “I'm really tired, and Sarge gets up early in the mornings. Besides, if you want to talk to me you can do it right here.”

He eyed her with a small smile. “What's the matter, Cookie? Afraid to sit with me in the dark?”

She rose to his bait, a flush of color staining her cheeks. “Just for a minute,” she said and swept past him and out the front door.

He followed behind her and together they sank down on the top step with inches between them. For a moment neither of them spoke. Nighttime in Mayfield was always quiet, peaceful.

There were no sirens in the distance, no traffic noises to disrupt the rhythmic cadence of the insects that filled the air. The sky overhead was a blanket of stars and a plump near-full moon hung suspended in the air as if by magic. “There's nothing prettier than a Mayfield moon,” he observed.

“It's the same moon that shines in California,” she replied.

He laughed lightly. “I suppose it is. It just looks prettier from here.”

She released a sigh that whispered of exhaustion, and he turned to look at her, noting how the moonlight bathed her beautiful features in a silvery glow.

“How long do you think you can keep this up?” he asked softly.

She didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about. “As long as it's necessary.” She sighed again. “You've just caught us at a bad time. Things will get better. The doctor expects Sarge to be able to get out of the wheelchair with some physical therapy and time.”

“So, he isn't paralyzed?”

“No, just weak.”

“Is he seeing a physical therapist?”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “Not right now. He's being difficult and wallowing in pity. But with a little more time that will change.”

“Claire, given a little more time, you're going
to end up in the hospital with a bad case of exhaustion. You need to hire some help.”

“That kind of help doesn't come cheap.” She said the words with great reluctance. “And don't even offer because I don't want a dime from you. Sarge and I can handle things just fine on our own.”

A stir of anger rose up inside him. “Dammit, Claire, your stubborn self-reliance is someday going to be the death of you.” It had already been the death of their marriage. The words rang in his head, but he bit them back before they could be spoken aloud. Nothing could be served by going back to that place in time.

“If you brought me out here to extol my character flaws, then I think this conversation is finished.” She started to rise, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her back down next to him.

“Wait…okay, I'm sorry,” he exclaimed. She pulled her hand from his and remained tensed as if for flight. Once again, he became aware of her fresh-scented perfume and the heat of her body and he fought a sudden desire to reach out and pull her into his arms.

However, with far too much clarity he remembered how stiff and unyielding her body had been the last time he'd attempted to hold her.

“What are you going to do with the treasure if you find it?” he asked.

She eyed him, her gray eyes almost silver in the
moonlight. “I don't know, maybe hire the help that you think I need. We don't need anyone full-time, just maybe a day or two a week so I can get a part-time job and help out with the bills.” She reached a hand up and touched a length of her hair.

“And if there's anything left over, maybe go to the beauty shop and have your hair and nails done?” He smiled at her look of surprise. “I haven't forgotten how much you used to enjoy a trip to Betty's Beauty Spa.”

A tiny smile whispered at her lips. “I can't remember the last time somebody else washed my hair for me.” The smile disappeared. “I still don't understand what you wanted to talk to me about.”

“I have a deal to offer you.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“I'll help you find that treasure while I'm here, if in return you help me find out something about Daniel and Sarah Walker.” It had been an idea that had been boiling around in his head all evening. He knew Claire would never take anything from him, but hoped she'd let him help her get at least some of the money they so obviously needed.

“How am I supposed to find out anything about those people?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Mayfield was begun in 1849. Maybe they were citizens. You used to like digging around in the old records at City Hall.”

“I don't have the time,” she exclaimed.

“You could take the time while I'm here,” he
countered. “I can entertain Sarge and give you the time to take a break from here and see what you can find.”

She frowned, obviously thinking about it. “They can't be long-lost relatives of mine. I did our genealogy a long time ago and I don't recall any Walkers in the family tree.” She swirled a strand of her hair between two fingers and he wished it were his fingers touching the silk of her hair. “Why do you care about those people in the picture anyway?”

“Aside from the fact that they look just like us?” He stared up at the moon, trying to find the words to explain to her what he'd felt from the moment he'd seen that photo.

He looked back at her, wondering if she'd think he'd lost his mind. “I just feel as though fate put that picture there in the ground for us to find, that we were meant to find it for a reason.”

She stood and brushed off the seat of her shorts. “And I'd say fate already had its go at us and I have no intention of letting it dabble in my life ever again.”

She moved to the front door. “But I'll take you up on that deal. You help me find the treasure money and I'll see what I can find out about Sarah and Daniel Walker for you. With any luck, both can be accomplished very quickly.” With these last words she disappeared back into the house.

Joshua remained where he was seated. He tipped
his head back and once again stared up at the moon, as the sound of the night insects created a lullaby.

He'd come here with every intention of cutting ties with Claire. He'd come to tell her he was finally going to get a divorce from her, but finding that picture had thrown him for a loop.

He hadn't been kidding when he'd told her that he felt as though fate was at work here. What were the odds that it would be he and Claire who would dig up that old picture? And why on earth did the two people in the photo look exactly like them?

Sighing, he rose from the stoop. For the moment he wasn't going to mention a divorce to Claire. He was going to wait and see what they could find out about the couple in the photo.

He was going to wait and see if fate intended to be kind or if it merely intended to kick them in the teeth once again.

 

Claire stood at the kitchen window, sipping coffee and watching Joshua as he pushed the lawn mower across the expanse of the backyard. The whir of the motor roared through the open window, bringing with it the pleasant scent of freshly mowed grass.

Sarge sat at the table behind her, eating his breakfast of oatmeal, the clank of his spoon against the bowl barely penetrating Claire's concentration.

Joshua's broad bare chest gleamed in the morn
ing sunshine and his jean shorts emphasized his slim waist and hips and the length of his long, muscular legs. Had his chest always been so impossibly broad? Had his back always been so filled with strength?