Sunday Kind of Love (24 page)

“We both know that if you don't tell me now, I'm going to lie here and think about it. I won't be able to sleep a wink! Unless you want that on your conscience, I suggest you start talking.”

Gwen sighed. Sandy was right; she wouldn't be able to let it go.

So she told her friend everything, starting at the beginning. She laid out all that she'd learned about the night Pete died. It sounded almost as unbelievable coming from her own lips as it had coming from Hank's. Sandy listened, wide-eyed and silent; Gwen imagined that she herself had looked much the same when Hank had told her the truth.

“Wow…just…” Sandy stammered once Gwen had finished. “Wow…”

“But I don't know what to do now,” Gwen continued. She pulled the folded pages from her pocket. “Should I take what I wrote to the
Bulletin
? Surely Sid Keaton would publish it. I mean, if this isn't news, I don't know what is.”

“So what's stopping you?” Sandy asked.

“Hank,” she answered. “He lied about what happened because he wanted to protect his father. If what I wrote is published, then his sacrifice becomes worthless.”

Sandy was silent for a moment, thinking. “How did Myron react when you saw him?” she finally asked. “Was he reluctant to talk?”

Gwen shook her head. “Just the opposite. He told me that this has weighed on him ever since the night of the accident. He hates himself for not being brave enough to admit to what he did. Myron knows it isn't fair that Hank assumed the blame for Pete's death. He wants to make it right.”

“Then there's your answer.”

“I don't understand.”

“What happened that night is as much Myron's story as it is Hank's. Probably more so,” her friend explained. “Hank loved his father enough to take the blame for something he didn't do, but that doesn't mean Myron has to go along with it. Not forever. If he wants to confess, who can stop him?”

Gwen understood that Sandy was right. It obviously bothered Myron that Hank was hated by most everyone in town, especially when that anger should've been directed at him. Maybe it was guilt that fueled his drinking. Regardless, Myron had been clear when they'd talked in his hospital room. He wanted the truth known, no matter what it might cost him. Still, she couldn't stop worrying about how Hank would react.

“I don't want to make Hank angry,” she said. “I'm afraid that by doing this, I'm going to end up ruining what we have.”

“He might be mad,” Sandy conceded. “At least for a little while. But it won't last long. I'd bet that both Hank and his dad will feel better quick. Carrying around all that guilt can't have been good for either of them.”

For the second time since Gwen had come back to Buckton, it'd been her dearest friend who had pushed her in the right direction.

Toward Hank.

Nothing about making her decision had been easy. Standing in Sandy's hospital room, taking in all that had been said, Gwen understood that now that she had put her plan in motion, she had to see it through to the end.

“I think I know what to do,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I'm just glad I could help. Maybe you could—” Sandy began but then yawned, too tired to hold it back.

“That's my cue to go,” Gwen said, leaning over the bed to kiss the new mother's forehead. “Get some rest.”

Sandy was asleep before Gwen reached the door. Out in the hallway, she looked at the pages she'd typed.

It was time to take them where they needed to go.

A
RE YOU TELLING
me
this
is what really happened?”

Sid Keaton leaned back in his chair, his feet on his desk, the pages Gwen had written in his hands. When she'd first arrived at the
Bulletin
, the publisher had been hurriedly putting the final touches on the latest edition, double-checking with his reporters, making edits, and laying out advertisements. The issue was scheduled to go to the printer in less than an hour. While Sid had been friendly, asking if she was excited to see her article in print, it was clear he had little time to talk.

Until Gwen had told him the reason for her visit.

They'd gone into his office. Sid had shut the door and even lowered the blinds, making it clear to his employees that they weren't to be disturbed. Before Gwen had even taken a seat, he'd bombarded her with questions, wanting to know where she'd gotten her information. In answer, Gwen had handed him what she'd typed up. He had sat down and begun to read, his eyes racing across the pages.

“I gotta say, at first glance, it's hard to believe,” he said.

“It's the truth,” she told him.

“So let me get this straight. Myron was driving, but Hank took the blame for his brother's death to protect his old man.”

Gwen nodded.

“He could've gone to jail,” Sid observed.

“I don't think he cared. With his mother and Pete dead, most everyone he loved was gone. His father was all he had left. Besides, he wasn't thinking clearly just after the accident. He did what he thought was right.”

“There's a lot of quotes from Myron in here,” Sid said, tapping the pages. “Did he know what you planned on doing with what he told you?”

“When we talked, he made it perfectly clear that he wanted people to know what he'd done,” she explained. “Myron's tired of hiding it. He knows that I was writing something to bring to you.”

“What's Hank's take on all this?”

“He doesn't know,” Gwen answered honestly.

Sid stared at her for a moment, then tossed the pages on his desk. “You're awfully close to this story, aren't you?” he asked. “I can see it in your writing.”

Gwen frowned. She'd taken great pains to try to remove her personal involvement with Hank from her work. As she'd rewritten the pages over and over, Gwen had strived to make it about the facts of the accident and the quotes that revealed the truth, leaving out any opinions or conjecture. Obviously she hadn't done as good of a job as she'd thought.

“Don't worry. It isn't
that
obvious,” Sid told her, as if he'd once again read her mind. “But I'd be willing to bet I'm right.”

“You are,” Gwen admitted.

“How so?”

She took a deep breath. “I'm in love with Hank.”

The room went silent. Outside the closed door, Gwen could hear the hustle and bustle of the newspaper. People called out to each other. Telephones rang. But inside Sid's office, neither of them made a sound.

“Have you thought about the possible consequences of this being published?” he finally asked. “It could be ugly.”

“I have,” Gwen answered, remembering her conversation with Sandy.

But she and Sid weren't thinking about the same sorts of consequences.

“You might want to think again,” he said. “Hank dodged a bullet before, but when word of this gets out, he could end up behind bars.”

“What?!” Gwen blurted. “How?”

“I've never met a police officer who took kindly to being lied to,” Sid explained, “and that's just what Hank did. Now, the fact that they didn't press charges after the accident makes it likely they wouldn't do it now, but there's no guarantee. There could be trouble for publishing this. For Hank
and
Myron.”

Gwen felt foolish for never considering that Hank could get in trouble for lying. Maybe Sid was right and nothing would happen. After all, punishing Hank or his father now wouldn't bring Pete back. Was it worth the risk?

“Let me make a phone call,” Sid said.

He dialed, and after a couple of seconds greeted the person who answered. “Margaret! Hey, it's Sid over at the
Bulletin
,” he said, as friendly as could be. “Say, is Bruce in? I've got something I want to run by him.” A pause as he listened to her reply. “Sure, I'll wait.”

Gwen knew that Sid was talking about Bruce Palmer, Buckton's chief of police. Her nerves started to get the better of her; she had such a hard time keeping her hands still that she considered sitting on them.

But she needn't have worried.

When the policeman got on the line, Sid went to work. Gwen marveled at how he maneuvered their conversation. He never came out and said that he had evidence Hank wasn't responsible for his brother's death, but instead beat around the edges of it. He suggested things rather than stating them. He hinted rather than declared. Listening to him gave Gwen an idea of what being a professional journalist was all about. By the time Sid hung up, he was smiling.

“I think Hank will be in the clear,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Gwen asked, unable to shake her worry.

“I've known Bruce since we were kids,” Sid explained. “We might not agree on everything, but I don't think he'd steer me wrong.”

“Does that mean you want to publish what I wrote?”

“Absolutely. But the final decision is yours to make.”

But it wasn't, not completely.

Gwen remembered what Sandy had said. What happened that fateful night was Myron's story to tell. While it had been her idea to put the truth in the newspaper, Hank's father had
agreed
with her, had
wanted
his guilt and responsibility for his son's death known. While Hank might end up angry at the both of them, Gwen still believed that the only way for him and her to be together, to start building a future, was to stop living a lie.

In the end, her choice was easy.

“It should be published,” she said.

Sid smiled broadly. “In that case, I've got another call to make.”

This time, the conversation wasn't as friendly.

“Yeah, Gary, I'm gonna need you to hold the paper,” he began, then immediately frowned. “I know. I know what time it is. I can read a damn watch, but look, something's come up.” She could hear shouting through the receiver. “Yeah, but…no, I don't know how long it's gonna take, but we have to wait.”

Listening to the back-and-forth, Gwen realized that a newspaper publisher wore many different hats. While Sid had had to tread delicately when talking to Buckton's police chief, a friendly tone wasn't always going to get the job done.

Sometimes, you had to raise your voice.

“I don't care if you don't want to wait! Do it!” Sid shouted, then hung up. Turning to Gwen, he said, “Sorry you had to hear that, but folks start to get grumpy when we're close to printing. Nine times out of ten, it all goes like clockwork.” With a wink, he added, “Unfortunately for Gary, this is that one.”

Sid stuck his head out the door and called for someone to come take Gwen's article so that it could be edited and typeset.

“I know I said it the last time you were here,” he told her once he was back behind his desk, “but I think you've got a future in this. If you'd ever want a recommendation for one of those fancy papers back in Chicago, I'd be happy to write you one.” Sid chuckled. “I don't know how much it'd help, but I don't think I burned enough bridges when I left for it to hurt.”

“What if I wanted to work
here
?” Gwen asked, the suddenness of her question surprising even her.

Sid nodded, mulling over what he'd heard. “You're thinking of staying?”

“I am,” she admitted.

“What about Chicago? I thought you were happy there.”

Gwen gave a thin smile. “I thought so, too,” she said. “But since I've been home, I've started to realize that things aren't always what they seem.”

“Falling in love has a way of doing that.”

She couldn't have agreed more.

Just last week, Gwen had come back to Buckton in the company of another man, thinking that it was only for a short visit. But since then, her whole world had been turned upside down. Now, there was nowhere else she wanted to be, no man other than Hank with whom she wanted to share her life.

“If you work here,” Sid explained, “you'll have to start at the bottom. I know you've already had two headlines, but that's not the way I do things. Whatever you get, you'll earn, same as everyone else. In the beginning, that might mean answering phones or soliciting advertising. Can you do that?”

“I can. I
will
,” she answered enthusiastically, stunned that her dream of becoming a writer was one step closer to reality. “I accept!”

“Hold on a second,” Sid replied, tempering her happiness. “You should think it over for a day or two. The last thing I want is for you to realize you jumped the gun and quit on me after two weeks. Nobody wins if that happens. Once you're sure this is what you want to do, then we'll sit down and talk again, get all the details ironed out.”

“All right,” Gwen agreed, although she knew nothing would change her mind. She couldn't wait to tell Hank the good news.

Just as she was about to leave, mindful that Sid still had a newspaper to put out, he said, “By the way, it looks like you were right about the fires.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was another one last night,” Sid explained. “Carl Tate's auto garage went up in flames. Fortunately it didn't spread to any nearby buildings, largely thanks to the storm. Still, Carl lost a couple cars and his livelihood. That's three fires in not quite two weeks. If someone isn't setting them deliberately, I'll eat my hat.”

“Do you need something written up about it?” Gwen asked.

Sid chuckled. “You don't ever quit, do you?” he said. “Don't worry, I've got it covered. Besides, you've got plenty on your plate. Remember, when people read the paper in the morning, things in Buckton are going to be different. Tongues will wag and phones will ring off the hook. My advice would be to talk to Hank, right now. He deserves to know what's comin'.”

Gwen nodded. Sid was right.

It was time for her and Hank to have a long talk.

Hank paced his workshop as restlessly as a caged animal, a paintbrush in his hand. So far he'd tried finishing the detail work on a table, taken his axe and chopped a dozen pieces of oak for a project he'd been meaning to start, and then begun applying varnish to a bench. He had done all these things to try to quiet the storm raging in his head, but nothing had worked.

He couldn't stop thinking about Gwen.

His hands busy or still, his eyes open or shut, Hank couldn't erase the sight of her in Kent's arms. He wanted to believe that there was an explanation, that it hadn't been what it seemed, but the image wouldn't go away, taunting him. Doubt gnawed at his guts.

Angry at himself, Hank whipped the paintbrush across the room and stalked outside, turning his face up to the late-afternoon sun.

After speeding away from the Fosters' house, he and Skip had gone to the hospital. Hank had been reluctant to visit his father, struggling to come to grips with what he'd just witnessed, but his friend had insisted. Seeing Myron hadn't helped Hank's mood. His father had been sleeping, his head heavily bandaged. To his son, he looked frail, older than his years, yet surprisingly peaceful. No matter how many indignities Hank had suffered since his mother's death, regardless of the sacrifices he'd made in claiming responsibility for the accident that took Pete, Hank loved his father. He just wished it had been enough, that it would've fixed what was broken.

“He's gonna be all right,” Skip had said. “You'll see.”

When watching his father became too much to bear, Hank had gone in search of a doctor. Reading from a chart, the physician had explained that Myron's cut was deep but it would heal, though it would likely leave a scar. The real warning had been reserved for his father's drinking.

“If he doesn't stop soon,” the doctor had said, “it will kill him.”

Hank had nodded, silently praying that this time, the lesson would be learned.

The whole drive home, Hank kept hoping that when they pulled into the drive, Gwen would be there waiting for him. But she wasn't. Skip had stuck around for a while, making small talk, suggesting that they go get some lunch or throw the baseball, but Hank hadn't been interested. Eventually Skip had left his friend to battle his worries alone.

And so here he was, confused, annoyed, and heartsick.

It was then, lost in thought, that Hank heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. He walked up the drive, convinced that it was Gwen, excited to see her again yet dreading the difficult conversation that was sure to follow.

But it wasn't her.

A red Plymouth turned onto the gravel and headed slowly toward him. Hank instantly recognized the car. It belonged to someone he never would have expected to see. Someone whose arrival heralded bad things.

It was Jed Ringer.

To make matters worse, he wasn't alone. The two goons who'd been with him outside the malt shop popped out of the passenger door. “Thought you said he wasn't gonna be home,” one of them said, a baseball bat slung over his shoulder, before his boss silenced him with a raised hand.

Looking at the three men, Hank realized that fighting with Jed at the baseball game and goading him outside the malt shop had been playing with fire. A tough like Jed had likely been stewing about things ever since. Now he was searching for revenge. No doubt, there was about to be trouble.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Hank asked as he bunched his hands, preparing to fight. He was trapped in a sort of no-man's-land, too far from both the house and his workshop; he wondered if he'd have time to reach either and grab something heavy before his unwanted visitors were on top of him.