Sunday Kind of Love (26 page)

Throwing the truck into park, Gwen was out of the cab like a shot, running toward the fallen man. He lay in a twisted heap, one arm bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken, as blood spilled from a cut on his forehead. He wasn't moving. Though she was terrified she might have killed someone, Gwen was relieved to see that it wasn't Hank she'd hit, but a man whose face looked vaguely familiar…

“Gwen!”

She turned and saw Hank. Gwen ran to him, but just as she was about to throw her arms around him, to hold Hank close and thank the heavens that he was all right, she stopped. Bruises marred his face and blood dripped from a cut on his arm. “You're hurt!” she exclaimed.

“Compared to them, I got off easy,” he said with a weak smile, then pointed.

Gwen looked to see two other men sprawled in the yard. Both were rolling around, but neither looked like he had any fight left in him.

“I hit someone with the truck,” she said as her hands started to shake, realizing what she'd done.

“It's all right,” Hank told her, pulling her into his arms, quieting the tears that threatened to fall. “There was nothing you could have done.”

As Gwen tried to take comfort in Hank's soothing words, a pair of explosions ripped through the burning building, shaking the air and making her jump with fright. Hank calmly walked them farther away and closer to the house.

“Your workshop!” she cried, her attention drawn back to what had sent her speeding to his side. “Your things! Call the fire department! We can still—”

“It's too late,” Hank interrupted. He sighed, his eyes wet as he looked over the damage the fire was still causing, the broken glass, the sagging beams, the destruction of all he'd worked so hard to build. “It's gone.”

By the time Hank's workshop had been completely consumed by the fire, the sun had nearly set. The moon was already high in the still-blue sky, as if it had become impatient waiting for its celestial opposite to leave. The firemen had come and gone, spraying more water on the grass and nearby trees than on the burning building, trying to keep the blaze from spreading. One policeman remained, taking a statement from Hank.

Jed Ringer had been placed in an ambulance, his two flunkies stuffed into the back of a squad car. Gwen had been relieved that she hadn't accidentally killed Jed with the truck, but from the way he howled in agony when he was lifted onto a gurney, she figured he had an awfully long mend ahead of him. By the time he healed, he'd likely be in a jail cell.

“They're gonna figure it out,” Sam had been overheard saying to Clint almost as soon as the cops had arrived.

“Shut up, stupid!” his fellow goon had hissed back.

Sam had been right. When a policeman opened Jed's trunk, he'd found a couple of canisters of gasoline, rags that could have been used for lighting fires, and a collection of knickknacks that at first seemed innocent, but ended up being the most damning evidence of all. Apparently, before Jed and his gang torched a place, they took a memento; Gwen recognized a birdhouse that used to hang from a hook on the Morgans' porch.

Even though Hank was little liked around town, Gwen could see that the police officers and firemen were still sympathetic. She wondered how they'd feel in the coming days, after her article had been published in the newspaper and they learned that their disdain for him had been misguided.

Finally the last police car backed down the drive, leaving Gwen and Hank alone.

He stood with his back to her, staring at the wreckage of his workshop, ruined tools mixed with the ashes of his labor. Absently, he toed a still-smoldering piece of wood. If he heard her approach, he didn't react.

“I'm sorry,” she told him, knowing it did nothing to fill the void of his loss.

“No reason to be,” he replied flatly.

“I feel bad all the same.”

When Hank didn't respond or even look at her, Gwen frowned. Ever since she'd gone to call the authorities, he had been distant with her. At first, Gwen chalked it up to the trauma of being attacked, of having his livelihood stolen, to his being in shock, but now she wondered if it wasn't something more.

“I also wanted to apologize for leaving so early this morning,” she said, knowing that this was as good of a time as any to broach the subject of her speaking with his father. She needed to tell him what she'd written. “I had some important things to do.”

Hank nodded but still didn't speak.

Growing a bit frustrated, Gwen touched his arm. When he looked down at her, she saw that his bruises were getting darker and that soot stained his cheeks. It didn't matter. She found him as handsome as ever. But almost as soon as his gaze found hers, Hank turned away.

“What is it?” she insisted. “What's wrong?”

Hank took a deep breath, his broad chest rising and falling. “I saw you today,” he told her; it sounded like an accusation.

“You what?” she asked, confused. “Where?”

“At your folks' place,” Hank answered. “Skip picked me up and we went looking for you. We saw you pull up to the house.”

Thinking back on it, Gwen couldn't understand what Hank had seen that so bothered him. Had he not liked watching her argue with Kent?

“Then why are you acting like this?” she pressed.

When he turned back to her, his eyes were flat, piercing. This time he didn't look away. “I saw you with Kent,” he said. “I saw you in his arms.”

E
VEN SINCE HE
and Skip had driven away from the Fosters' house, his heart hammering, his hands balled into fists, Hank had wondered how Gwen would react to being confronted. He couldn't imagine she would deny being in Kent's arms; after all, he'd
seen
her. Would she be embarrassed, start crying, or admit that she couldn't let go of the successful lawyer and the exciting life they had back in Chicago? Would Gwen say that making love to him had been a mistake?

The one thing he hadn't expected her to do was laugh.

It started as a chuckle but steadily grew until her eyes were wet with tears. Completely taken aback, Hank had to ask, “What's so funny?”

“You said that you saw me drive up to the house, right?” Gwen replied.

Hank nodded.

“Then I got out of the truck, went up the walk, and eventually Kent came down the stairs,” she said, laying out events just as they had occurred.

“And that's when you hugged him,” he said.

“No, I didn't,” Gwen disagreed.

“I
saw
it,” he snapped. The sight was burned into Hank's mind; he wondered if he'd ever be able to forget it. Just thinking about them, Gwen's head against Kent's chest, his arms pulling her close, made him mad all over again.

But then she threw a glass of cold water on his anger.

“What you saw was
Kent
embracing
me
, not the other way around,” she explained. “Tell me what happened next.”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “I told Skip to drive off. I couldn't stand the sight of you in another man's arms.”

Gwen smiled, a beautiful, delicate gesture that disarmed him further. “I wish you would've stuck around a while longer.”

“Why?” Hank asked, confused.

“What you saw may have been a nightmare,” she said, “but you missed the happy ending.”

Gwen told him that she'd pushed Kent away, that she had admitted to falling for another man, and that their relationship was over. She seemed genuinely hurt by the mean, spiteful things Kent had said once he'd understood she was serious. Gwen hadn't wanted to hurt him, but there'd been no other way.

“I ended things with Kent because I'm in love with
you
,” she said. “This is where I want to be, by your side, forever.”

She rose on her tiptoes and placed her lips against his, kissing him gently. Even as Hank returned her affection, his head swam.

He felt like a damned fool.

How could he have doubted her? If he'd only followed Skip's advice and talked to her, everything would've been out in the open and he wouldn't have spent the rest of the day sick with worry. Hank supposed that part of the reason he'd been willing to jump to conclusions was because love was so unfamiliar to him. It was a lot like the smoke still rising from his workshop, impossible to grab hold of. But somehow, despite himself, that's just what he had done.

“I thought that the way you left this morning,” he explained, “along with what I saw, meant that you regretted what we'd done.”

“Never,” Gwen said. “But looking back, I shouldn't have driven off the way I did.”

“Where did you go?” he asked. “What was so important it couldn't wait?”

Now it was her turn to take a deep breath.

“You didn't need to worry about Kent,” she said, “but that doesn't mean there isn't reason for you to be mad at me.”

Hank had a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Why is that?”

Then she told him.

When Gwen explained to Hank that she'd visited his father in the hospital, he looked shocked; his eyes widened, his jaw fell open, and he seemed to momentarily hold his breath. But when she told him the reason she had wanted to talk to Myron, that surprise quickly changed to anger; his gaze narrowed, his mouth clamped shut, he breathed raggedly through his nose, and the muscles of his neck and shoulders grew tense. However, it wasn't until she said that she'd written an article detailing the truth about the accident that claimed Pete's life, as well as the fact that it would be published in tomorrow's newspaper, that he finally spoke.

“How could you do this?” he shouted, as mad as she'd ever seen him.

“I had to,” she said simply.

Hank began to pace back and forth in front of the wreckage of the workshop, too angry to remain still. He ran a hand through his hair, showing the bandaged cut on his forearm. “Everything I've done was to protect my father,” he told her. “But now you've ruined it all.”

“You had the best of intentions, but it hasn't worked,” Gwen said. “Look at the state your father is in. Do you really believe that getting drunk, falling down, and hurting himself means that he's handling his guilt well?”

“If people find out what he did, it'll kill him!”

“I think Myron's doing a good job of that on his own.”

Hank stopped and stared hard at her.

“It's the truth,” she continued, desperate to make him understand. “When I talked to him, he didn't hold anything back. He admitted to everything. He's ashamed for what he did, for what he continues to do, and is tired of running from it. He doesn't want you to carry this burden anymore. I don't think he ever did.”

Hank shook his head. “You still should've told me what you were planning to do.”

“Why? You would have tried to talk me out of it,” Gwen said. “You told me that you made your decision on the spur of the moment, right after you found out Pete was dead. You weren't thinking clearly. Surely you must see that.” She took a tentative step toward him, wanting to be closer. “But for you to cling to that choice now, months later, knowing that it hasn't made a difference in anyone's life, that it's actually made things worse, means you're just being stubborn. This has to stop, Hank. It has to.”

“I suppose you think you know what's best for me,” he said, his words tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

“In this case, absolutely,” Gwen answered, refusing to back down, wanting him to understand, to agree with her. “Look at my parents. Think about all the terrible things they've said about you. When you risked your life to save mine, when you brought me home to them, my father ended up throwing you out of the house, all because of what he believed to be true! How many other people in town wrongly feel the same? None of them know you like I do, but until you fight to clear your name, until you declare your innocence, nothing will change.”

For the first time, Gwen thought she might be reaching Hank. There was something in his eyes, a glimmer of hope, maybe, but he refused to let go of his pessimism. “People won't believe what you've written.”

“Some won't,” she agreed, “but others will. It will take time, a lot longer than you've spent living this lie. But in the months and years to come, I bet most people will look at you the way Freddie Holland does.”

Hank paused. “I'm still mad at you.”

“I can understand why.”

“This is that important to you?” he asked, his eyes searching her face, his tone softening.

“Yes, it is,” Gwen replied.

“Why?”

She smiled. “You really don't know?”

Hank shook his head.

“Can I make a confession to you?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“I didn't go see your father just for you,” she admitted. “I also went for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to build a life with you, so I started to wonder whether I wouldn't be judged guilty by association,” Gwen explained. “What if when I went to the department store I had to listen to people whispering about me, saying things like ‘There goes that woman whose husband killed his brother'? What about our children? Would they be burdened by your decision, too?” In a way, it was hard to tell him about her hopes for their future, to confess to what she wanted, but she pushed forward. “You may not like it, but I had to do something. I respect you wanting to protect your father. A part of me admires you for it. But you aren't responsible for Pete's death. It's past time the truth came out.”

Gwen had spoken with Hank's father, had written her article and presented it to Sid Keaton for publication, all because she loved him. She wanted a future with him, wanted it badly, but in order for it to come to pass, Hank's slate needed to be wiped clean. His well-intentioned lie had to be destroyed and the foundation of his life rebuilt. It reminded her of his workshop; sure, it was wrecked now, but something would rise from the ashes, better than ever.

For a long while, Hank was silent, mulling over what she'd told him. Finally he said, “You're right. I wouldn't want you or the family we might one day have to be punished for what I've done.” Hearing him talk about a future together, the same things she had, made Gwen's heart beat faster. “But I don't want my father to be hurt, either. Even though he and his drinking have caused all sorts of trouble, I still love him. I don't like the idea of people treating him badly, even if it's deserved.”

“Myron knows what he's doing,” she said. “Trust me.”

Hank nodded and the matter was settled. Suddenly, even though darkness had fallen, the future looked brighter than ever.

“Why don't we go see your dad?” Gwen suggested. “The two of you should talk before tomorrow's paper is published.”

“Okay,” Hank said, “but there's something I want to do first.”

He took her by the elbow and pulled her close. Gwen felt as if she had floated into his embrace. Heat radiated from the smoldering fire, insects called out in the darkness, and the moon shone brightly above, surrounded by thousands of twinkling stars, but the only thing she was aware of was Hank. She knew what he wanted because she wanted it, too. As he lowered his mouth to hers, Gwen closed her eyes and surrendered to the moment. Seconds later, she found that it was everything she'd hoped it would be.

They went to the hospital. Visiting hours had long since ended and the two of them looked quite the sight—sweaty, bandaged, and bruised—but no one was around, so they let themselves in. Hank sat on the edge of his father's bed and asked questions. Some were about how Myron was feeling, but he mostly wanted to know whether his father was really fine with everyone in Buckton knowing the truth about Pete's death.

“I'm tired of hidin' it,” Myron answered. “Lyin' ain't doin' either of us any good nohow. This way, you can get on with your life.”

“I don't like the idea of people thinking you're a murderer,” Hank said.

“But that's what I am,” he said, placing his hand over his son's. “If folks want to hate, let it be aimed at me, where it belongs. Not you.”

“All I wanted was to protect you.”

“I know,” Myron replied with a weak smile. “No father, not even a bum like me, could ever wish for more.”

Listening to them talk, Gwen noticed a change in Myron. He seemed more alert than when they'd spoken that morning, as if his head had cleared. Maybe it had something to do with not having anything to drink. She wondered whether he was capable of breaking the hold liquor had on him, or if it would drag him back down. For all of their sakes, but especially Hank's, she hoped that Myron would find the strength to stop.

Before they left, Hank's father looked at Gwen and said, “Thank you for what you done. I reckon the next couple of days are gonna be a mess, but sometimes you gotta break things to put 'em right again.” He turned to Hank and added, “Hold on to her, son, and don't let go.”

Outside, few cars drove Buckton's streets beneath the starry sky. Gwen didn't need to look at a clock to know it was late. She could only imagine what her parents were thinking. After the unpleasant scene she'd caused that morning with Kent, as well as their disapproval of her spending time with Hank, they were probably beside themselves with worry. Tomorrow, once they'd read her article, things would hopefully get better.

But that still left tonight.

“I should get you home,” Hank said.

When they pulled up to the curb, every light in the house was on. Gwen frowned; it wasn't a good sign. She wondered if Hank would stay or if he'd want to get some much-needed rest. She would have understood. After all he'd just been through, the last thing he'd want was another confrontation with her folks. But he pleasantly surprised her by getting out and walking with her toward the porch.

She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Before they reached the stairs, her mother stepped out the front door. Meredith must have heard the truck. She looked harried, a bit out of sorts from her normal reserved self. Gwen braced for a barrage of questions, but instead her mother rushed down the steps and pulled her into a tight embrace. “Oh, Gwendolyn! You're all right!”

“I'm fine,” she said, confused by her mother's tone of relief. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“You'd been gone so long that we grew worried,” Meredith explained. “Especially your father.”

Gwen remembered how Warren had reacted the first time she'd gone to visit Hank, ambushing her just inside the front door when she'd returned, peppering her with questions.

“This time he got so worked up that he called the police department,” her mother continued. “One of the officers said that he'd seen you out at Hank's. He also told us about the fire and the arrests that had been made. The next thing I knew, Warren left to pick up Samantha and the two of them went looking for you. I stayed behind in case you returned.”

Likely, when she and Hank had gone to visit Myron at the hospital, they'd passed her father and aunt somewhere along the way.

“Let me take a look at you.”

Meredith's words weren't directed at her daughter, but at Hank. Gently, she placed her hands on either side of his face, turning it one way and then the other, examining his wounds in the sparse light. Her expression showed concern; Gwen wondered if her mother wasn't looking deeper than Hank's cuts and bruises and reevaluating the man on the inside.