Sunday Kind of Love (19 page)

Still, Gwen wasn't the least bit surprised when they pulled into his drive.

He parked in front of his workshop and shut off the truck's engine. By now, the sun had started to set; if they'd arrived five minutes later, it would have been right in their eyes. Dark, ominous clouds were looming to the west. Gwen suspected it would soon rain. Looking over at Hank, one of his hands still on the steering wheel, Gwen found him undeniably handsome; even under the circumstances, he was still capable of taking her breath away. No wonder Kent had been so jealous.

Without the radio playing, the silence between them became more noticeable. “I'm sorry about what happened,” Gwen said.

Hank shook his head. “Don't be. We've got no more control over what other people say than we do over when the sun rises each morning. If anyone's to blame, it's me.”

“How could it be your fault?”

“Because I knew that by showing up at your folks' place, we were asking for trouble. Kent being there made it that much worse.”

Gwen didn't know how to respond. He was right. They should've known what they were getting into. After all, it wasn't as if her parents had kept their feelings for Hank a secret. But she hadn't anticipated that her father would call Kent. It was like adding gasoline to a fire.

“Are you hungry?” Hank asked.

“A bit,” Gwen admitted, thinking back to how she'd only nibbled at her lunch, rattled by what their waitress had said.

“Come on. I'll whip something up.”

Gwen followed Hank inside. When they entered the kitchen, he said, “I'm not too bad of a cook, you know. My omelets are nothing to—”

When Hank abruptly fell silent, he also stopped moving; Gwen was so close that she couldn't avoid bumping into his back. But then, even as she wondered what had happened, she saw the answer.

Someone was lying on the floor.

The curtains had been drawn and the lights were all off, shrouding the room in dark shadows. A man lay facedown with one arm outstretched. He wasn't moving. A broken plate and the remains of a meal were scattered across the floor. A pair of nearly empty bottles added to the mess. A chair was tangled up with his legs, making it appear as if he'd been sitting at the small table before falling.

She smelled alcohol.

Then Gwen noticed the dark puddle near the man's head. At first she assumed that something had spilled. But when Hank flipped on a light and she saw how big it was, how
red
it was, she gasped from fright and surprise.

“Dad!” Hank shouted as he ran over and began to shake the man's shoulder. There was no response. “Can you hear me?!”

Gwen moved as if in a trance. Her foot crunched on a broken piece of plate. She reached Hank just as he rolled his father over. Myron Ellis was hard to recognize. Gone was the cheerful man she'd once greeted at the bakery, someone who always had a joke ready for her father. Looking down at him, Gwen saw a face that was both gaunt and pale, his cheeks covered with an unkempt beard. His nose, a maze of ruptured blood vessels, looked as if it had been broken, twisted awkwardly to one side. But what she couldn't tear her eyes away from was the deep gash just above one eyebrow, still oozing blood.

Over and over, Hank shouted his father's name, but Myron's eyes didn't flutter, his limbs remained motionless, and no words escaped his lips. To Gwen, he looked dead.

“Call an ambulance! We need to get him some help!”

It took Gwen a moment to realize that Hank was shouting at
her
. Tearing her eyes from Myron, she looked at his son and saw fear written on his face. She ran into the living room, searching for the telephone.

Even as she found it, Gwen feared that they were already too late.

Hank stood at the sink, washing his father's dried blood from his hands. Again and again he scrubbed them beneath the scalding-hot water, staining it crimson before it swirled down the drain. It was under his nails, deep in the nooks and crevices of his skin, between his fingers. In a way, it also coursed through his veins.

Even over the hiss of the faucet, Hank could hear Gwen offering thanks to the last remaining police officer. Ever since they had discovered Myron unconscious on the floor, she'd been a godsend. Without her help, especially in dealing with the authorities, Myron wouldn't already be at the hospital.

When they'd first found his father on the kitchen floor, Hank had thought he was dead. Myron had gotten drunk and then fallen, hitting his head on the edge of the table, the blow powerful enough to kill him. Cradling him, Hank had silently said good-bye. But then, before the ambulance arrived, his father had sputtered awake, sitting up as if nothing had happened, reaching for an overturned bottle before he'd even said a word. When Myron had noticed Gwen standing in the doorway, wide-eyed with disbelief, he'd demanded to know who she was and what she was doing in his house; even as Hank explained, his father had looked at
him
like he was a stranger. Myron had initially argued against any medical attention, but had eventually realized that his cut was more than a simple bandage could heal, so he'd agreed to stitches and a night's observation at the hospital, leaving Hank to clean up his mess.

Again.

“Everyone's gone.”

Hank looked up and saw Gwen's reflection in the window. Beyond, night had fallen, the stars obscured by clouds. A storm was rolling in.

“Thanks. For everything,” he told her.

He saw her shake her head. “You don't have to thank me,” she said. “I'm just glad I was here.”

“Me too.”

Hank shut off the faucet but didn't turn around. Silence descended. He took a deep breath. Ever since they'd found his father, Hank had understood that things between him and Gwen would be different. She would have questions she wanted to ask, questions that deserved answers. He owed her the truth.

Ever since Pete had died, he'd kept himself locked away, trapped by fate as well as by a snare of his own making. But then, in the aftermath of a storm, entirely by chance, he had found Gwen and everything changed. Accepting how he felt for her, allowing their relationship to grow, meant that he would have to unburden himself.

He had to take another leap.

She'd stood up to her parents, to Kent, defending him when almost no one else in Buckton would. She had jeopardized all she'd built back in Chicago.

For him.

How can I not risk something in return?

“Gwen…there's something I need to tell you…” he began, gripping the edge of the counter. “Something that's going to be hard to hear. Something you might not believe, though I swear that it's true.” He paused, gathering himself. “It's about Pete. About the night he died…”

Hank's heart pounded. This was the furthest he'd ever come in talking about what happened to his brother. No one knew, not even Skip.

“What is it?” Gwen asked innocently.

He turned around, ready to answer, but her beauty stopped him short. Every time he looked at Gwen, Hank wondered how he was lucky enough to have her be a part of his life. Skip was right; she
was
a knockout. He wanted their time together to go on and on. Forever. To make that happen, he couldn't falter. Not now. He had to trust in her.

“Everyone thinks that I'm responsible for Pete's death. The police. Your parents. The whole town. But it isn't true.” Hank shook his head. “I didn't kill my brother.”

T
HE LAST TWENTY
-four hours of Gwen's life had been full of surprises. The argument with her parents that had led her to spend the night with Samantha. Coming home to find Hank standing on her porch. The terrible things their waitress had said at the diner. Discovering that Kent had come from Chicago to confront her. Finding Myron Ellis unconscious in a pool of his own blood.

But none of them compared to what she'd just heard.

“What…what did you say?” Gwen asked, thinking that she must have misheard, that she hadn't understood.

“Pete didn't die because of me,” Hank repeated. “I wasn't driving.”

It made no more sense the second time she heard it. Gwen's thoughts twisted and turned, as if the ground had fallen out beneath her feet; it was like being back in the raging river. All she had heard since she'd been back in Buckton was that Hank Ellis was a murderer, that he had gotten drunk and killed his brother in a car accident. Now he was telling her that it wasn't true.

A sudden, painful thought occurred to her. Maybe Hank was telling her this in order to overcome the many obstacles their relationship faced. If everyone, especially her parents and Kent, was mistaken, then they could be together more easily. Maybe he wanted to be with her so badly that he was willing to lie.

“You don't believe me, do you?” Hank asked, as if he'd read her mind.

“It's…I just…” Gwen stumbled.

“It's all right,” he said. “I understand why you wouldn't.” Hank pushed himself away from the sink and came a couple of steps closer. “I bet if you asked every last person in Buckton who was responsible for Pete's death, they'd all say the same thing. That I did it.”

Gwen nodded. She was sure he was right.

He reached out and gently took her hand. “But I swear it isn't true,” he said emphatically. “I'm
not
responsible for Pete's death.”

She searched Hank's face, looking for something, anything that might prove his sincerity false, but she found nothing. As crazy as it seemed, Gwen believed him, which only raised more questions.

“If it wasn't you, then why does everyone think otherwise?” she asked.

Hank was silent for a moment, staring intently at her. Through the window over his shoulder, lightning flashed.

“Because that's what I want them to think,” he answered.

Gwen was stunned. “You
want
them to think you killed your brother? Why? It doesn't make any sense!”

“I did it to protect someone I love,” Hank explained. “I had no choice. There was nothing else I could do. So I lied to the police. I lied to all of my friends. I've lied to everyone since that night.” He raised a hand and tenderly placed it against her cheek. His skin was warm to the touch. “Until now.”

Looking into Hank's eyes, Gwen thought that she might know the truth. It was Pete. His brother had been the one driving, had lost control of the car and crashed, costing him his life. Maybe they'd both been drinking. Maybe there was another reason for the accident. But in the end, Hank had chosen to protect Pete's reputation at the cost of his own.

The low rumble of thunder rolled over the house. “It was Pete, wasn't it?” she asked, voicing her suspicion.

Surprisingly, Hank shook his head. “No,” he answered. “Pete died just like everyone believes, right there in the passenger seat.”

“I don't understand. If it wasn't you or Pete driving, then who?”

A profound sadness filled his eyes. “It was my father.”

The night that Pete died began like many others in the months after their mother's passing, with the two brothers out in the workshop while Myron was off somewhere getting drunk. The sounds of a baseball game echoed around the room, interrupted by the occasional scrape of a lathe or knock of hammer and chisel.

“Come on, already! Get a hit!” Pete shouted at the radio. He sat on a bench, legs dangling, nervously picking at his thumbnail.

“They can't hear you, you know,” Hank teased before blowing away shavings in order to get a better look at the chair he was working on.

“You don't know that. If every Reds fan started yelling at the same time, I bet they could hear it all the way at Crosley Field.”

Hank laughed. “You're nuts.”

Just then, the unmistakable sound of a bat hitting a ball came over the radio, followed by the announcer's call. “There's a looping liner over the head of the second baseman and the lead runner moves over to third!”

“See?” Pete said, as if he'd been proven right.

Even as he was enjoying it, Hank already missed this time with his brother. Pete would be graduating from high school in a couple of months before heading off to college, the first in their family to do so. Though Pete was too modest to admit it, he was too smart to stick around Buckton. Hank knew it wouldn't be the same without him, but he was happy for his brother, too. Pete was going to be successful enough for the both of them. Hank was certain that their mother was watching up in heaven, proud of the men her boys were becoming.

“The Reds are gonna win the pennant this year, for sure,” Pete proclaimed.

“You say that every year.”

“Yeah, well this time I mean it.”

As much as Hank loved baseball, his passion for the game paled in comparison to his brother's. Every Cincy win was cause for celebration, every loss an occasion for despair. When Pete had been younger, he'd refused to go to bed unless he could sleep with his glove.

“I hope they're as confident as you,” Hank said. “If so, then—”

He was interrupted by the sound of the phone ringing in the house. Hank went to answer it; there was no way Pete was going to budge from the game. Halfway across the yard, he heard cheering. The Reds had scored.

“Hello?” he said as he picked up the receiver.

“Hank?” a man's voice asked.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, it's Rex McChesney down at the bar. I hate to call you like this, but we just tossed your old man outta here for bein' ornery. He was threatenin' to bust up the joint if he didn't get another drink, but I'd already cut him off. Shoulda done it an hour earlier. He stumbled off, but from the way he was actin', I'm pretty sure he's gonna cause more trouble. I figured you'd wanna know.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

Hank ran a hand through his hair. Ever since their mother had died, Myron had been in a downward spiral. In the beginning, the drinking had been understandable, a way to cope with the pain of his loss. He missed Eleanor. Everyone did. But where his sons fought through their grief, refusing to let it define them, Myron wallowed in it. They kept expecting their father to snap out of his malaise, but he never did. It only got worse. Every time Hank saw Myron nowadays, there was sadness in his eyes, a wound so raw that his son wondered if it would ever heal.

“We scored three that inning!” Pete exclaimed when Hank returned to the workshop. “The Reds got this one in the bag!” But then, seeing his brother's sour expression, he asked, “What's wrong?”

“I just got a call from the bar,” Hank began, then recounted what he'd heard.

Pete pointed at the car in the drive. “How'd he get there?”

Hank shrugged. “Walked or hitchhiked. As bad as Dad's gotten, he's not going to let a couple miles keep him from a drink.”

“I thought he was inside, asleep.”

“All I know is that I've got to pick him up before he causes a ruckus and ends up in jail.”

“I'll go,” Pete offered, hopping down from the bench. “You keep working on your chair.”

“Are you sure? You know how he can get.”

Normally Myron was an easy, if slightly melancholic, drunk. But every once in a while, when he'd had way too much, he could get feisty. Just last week, he'd tried to shove Hank but had lost his balance and fallen on his face.

“I'll be fine. A Coke says he falls asleep as soon as he gets in the car.”

“What about your game?”

“Aw, the Reds are gonna win easy. Besides, I can listen to it in the car,” Pete said, flashing an easy smile. “You got the keys?”

Hank tossed them across the workshop and Pete effortlessly snagged them like the good outfielder he'd always been.

“Be right back,” he said over his shoulder, walking to the car.

Hank had no way of knowing it, but that would be the last time he ever saw his brother alive.

Once Pete had gone, Hank returned to his chair. As he worked his hammer and chisel, he listened to the end of the baseball game; just as Pete had predicted, the Reds won. He carved a notch, then another, and another and so on, each bringing him one step closer to his vision of the piece. As was often the case when Hank worked, he lost track of time; he didn't know whether a minute had passed or an hour or two. He was cleaning off his tools when he heard it, a sound nearby. It was faint, yet unmistakable. The screeching of tires. A second later, a crash. Then silence. Hank's heart lurched.

Right then, just like that, he knew. It was as clear to him as if it had happened right in front of him. His tools hit the floor with a clatter.

Hank ran. In seconds, he was past the house, had burst through a copse of trees, and was sprinting toward the sound. His hands and legs pumped hard, his chest heaved, but he still cursed himself for not moving faster. It was dark, the half-moon obscured by patchy clouds, and he stumbled but refused to go down. A quarter mile from home, Hank found what he'd feared he would.

The car had dropped down an incline before smashing into a towering oak. The front end was crumpled, folded in on itself like an accordion. Tires were missing, probably shot off into the trees. Gouges had been dug into the soft earth, showing the path the vehicle had taken. While one headlight was out, the other continued to shine, illuminating the woods with an eerie glow. Even wrecked, he immediately recognized the car.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Hank kept repeating, as if by wishing for it he could make the crash not have happened.

He ran to the driver's side and yanked hard on the door. It protested, but opened. Hank had expected to find Pete, so he was stunned when his father fell onto the ground. Myron landed on his back, then moaned. High above, the cloud cover parted; enough moonlight shone down for Hank to see blood on his father's face and staining his clothes. The smell of alcohol was strong.

When Hank looked in the car, it felt as if his heart stopped.

Pete was as broken and motionless as the car, but that didn't keep Hank from crawling inside, through the blood, booze, and broken glass, to touch him. He shouted Pete's name over and over again, then cursed what had been taken from him while tears streamed down his face. He bargained and bartered, offering his own life in exchange for the ability to wind back time, to insist on being the one to drive into town, to make this wrong right, but nothing changed.

His brother was still dead.

“Wha…what in the hell's goin' on…?”

Hearing his father's voice filled Hank with rage. In a flash, he was out of the wrecked car and lifting Myron off the ground by two fistfuls of his bloody shirt, not giving a damn if the man was hurt.

“What have you done?” Hank demanded, his voice echoing off the trees and down the empty road.

“What…what're you talkin' 'bout?” his father slurred, his head lolling around on his shoulders, his eyes unfocused and distant.

“Why were you driving?” Hank roared, giving the drunken man a rough shake. “Why was it you and not Pete?”

“I…I ain't done nothin' wrong…” Myron managed. “Where's my…Wait…I think I…think I dropped my drink…”

As Hank listened to his father, who was either unaware or uncaring of the damage he'd caused, his fury threatened to consume him. He wanted to take his fists and beat the man, to end his life as the crash had somehow failed to do, to take a measure of revenge for his having caused Pete's death. But before Hank could act on his murderous impulse, Myron fell unconscious, his head slumping onto his son's chest.

Looking down at his father's bleeding face, Hank felt his anger drain away. In its place was a mixture of sadness and pity. He was flooded by memories of better times: Myron showing his oldest son how to hold a hammer, teaching him the intricacies of throwing a baseball, taking him and Pete sledding at Christmastime. So much had been taken from Myron with the death of his beloved wife that he hadn't been able to cope. Now that failure had cost him even more.

Hank began to sob. He no longer wanted to hurt his father. He wanted to heal him. Myron was now all the family he had left.

During the walk back to the house, carrying Myron in his arms, Hank formulated a plan. It was risky, dangerous even, but with every step he took, he felt as if he had no other choice. And so, after laying his father on the couch, checking his wounds, and taking a deep breath, Hank picked up the phone.

“I'd like to report an accident,” he began.

Back at the site of the crash, Hank struggled to cope with the enormity of his loss. Disbelief tried to coax him into taking another look inside the car, but he fought off the urge. He knew all too well the sight that waited for him. Hank doubted that he'd ever be able to forget it. So instead, he raged. Covered in blood and liquor, he clenched his fists and struck his chest, his eyes overflowing with tears as he shouted at the sky, demanding answers he knew he would never receive.

When the first police car arrived, its siren loud, its blue and red lights bouncing off the trees, Hank was screaming at the top of his lungs.

“…and that's when I saw the police car.”

Listening to Hank's story, Gwen had been spellbound. Everything she'd been told about the night Pete Ellis had died was wrong. Hank wasn't responsible. He hadn't killed his brother, no matter what he'd led everyone in Buckton to believe.