Sunday Kind of Love (8 page)

“Later, when Meredith told me what the fellow had done, I could better understand your father's reaction,” he explained. Kent shook his head. “Killing his own brother. Can you imagine it?”

Gwen couldn't, but she was exhausted, both mentally and physically, and no longer wanted to talk about Hank and Pete Ellis.

But then, just as she was about to ask Kent what day she might expect him to return to Buckton, he took another glance at his watch, got to his feet, and announced that it was time for him to get going.

“I thought you weren't leaving for an hour,” she said.

“I still need to finish packing my things, and then I should say a proper good-bye to your parents. Besides, you need your rest.”

Gwen frowned, sulking a bit at how unfair it all was. Her hopes for their vacation had been dashed in less than a day. “Will you miss me?”

“Every second that I'm away,” Kent answered with a smile. “As a matter of fact, I need something to tide me over until I return.”

He leaned down, tilted Gwen's chin up with his hand, and tenderly placed his lips against hers. Their kiss wasn't particularly passionate, yet it lingered, his touch warm and welcome, a sweet moment that made her heart beat faster. When it ended, Gwen kept her eyes closed, relishing it, knowing she would miss him while he was gone.

When he reached the door, Kent looked back. “I'll call every night.”

“You'd better,” Gwen warned, though she knew it was unlikely he'd hold to his promise; she worried it'd be like the times he had stood her up outside the theater or restaurants, too absorbed in his work to think of her.

“And when I get back,” he added, “we'll start planning the wedding.”

“We still need to talk about—”

But by then Kent was already gone, the door clicking shut behind him, undoubtedly happy that he'd gotten in the last word.

Gwen sighed, feeling more than a little frustrated. Her relationship with Kent was a conundrum, a riddle she couldn't quite solve. She loved him, wanted to marry him, but the question of her becoming a writer remained unresolved. It was a dream she wasn't willing to give up. Maybe now, with some time apart, she could do the thinking she knew she desperately needed.

Fatigue pressed down on her. Gwen yawned, allowed her eyelids to flutter and then close. She'd search for answers later.

First, she would sleep.

When Gwen finally woke, she did so with an itch she had to scratch.

She needed to write.

Unfortunately, the notebook in which she'd scribbled out her ideas, observations, and stray thoughts, almost a year's worth of work, had been the reason for her current condition. She could still see it, floating on the surface of the water, practically begging her to save it, but it had been bait in a trap. It had surely been destroyed, although she fancied the idea that it floated on and on, racing over rapids, around bends, under bridges, and through the other towns farther downstream. Either way, it was gone for good.

Which meant she needed something else to write in.

Gwen got out of bed, steadied herself on the bedpost as her head did a dizzy little dance, then went to her bags and began rummaging in the pockets.

Where is it? I know I packed it before I left…

And then she found it. Gwen had another journal in which she doodled from time to time, jotting down names, numbers, and whatever else wasn't quite good enough for the other book. She supposed it would have to do. Snatching up a pencil, she got back in bed and went to work.

Words flowed from her like the water in which she'd nearly drowned. Observations of every sort filled line after line: the chill of the river soaking into her clothes, her skin, down to her bones; how the dark clouds had skidded across the sky, the moon passing in and out of sight; the taste of the brackish water; and how tiny her voice had sounded as she screamed for help that she was sure would never come. For a long while, Gwen lingered on the shadowy form of her rescuer looming over her, saying her name. Her words spoke of her fears, her sadness, and her sudden hope, all the emotions she'd felt. On and on Gwen wrote, like a spigot turned open, wearing down the lead of her pencil until she had no choice but to stop.

Gwen sat back against her pillows. Writing had been invigorating, another way to heal, but deep in her heart she knew there was still something she had to do.

No matter what her father might think, regardless of the warning her mother had given, she had to speak with Hank Ellis.

H
E OFFERED YOU
forty bucks and you turned it down? Are you nuts?!”

Hank looked over at Skip Young as they drove down Main Street. His friend was staring back as if he was actually crazy. Two baseball gloves lay in his lap, a bat leaned between his knees, and the ball he'd been tossing was now frozen in his hand. His reaction made sense; Skip was always on the lookout for money.

“It wouldn't have been right,” Hank answered.

“Who cares? Do you know how much forty bucks can buy?”

“I didn't jump in the river so I could get a reward.”

“Then why
did
you do it?” Skip asked.

“Because I was the only one who could help,” he replied. “If I hadn't, she would've drowned.”

“So what's wrong with lettin' a guy express his gratitude for savin' his fiancée?”

Hank frowned. “It's not just the money,” he said, thinking about his conversation with Kent. “I didn't like the way he was talking to me.”

“How so?”

“He made me feel like a bellhop at a hotel getting paid for hauling luggage. It was like I was beneath him, like he was doing me a favor.”

“Soakin' wet, I bet you looked like a hobo.”

Hank couldn't help but laugh. “You've got a point.”

Skip chuckled, too. “Darn right, I do.”

They drove past the movie theater, the post office, and the library, all places where Hank had once felt comfortable, even welcome, but that had changed with Pete's death. Everywhere he went, he felt like every eye was on him, watching, judging. His discomfort peaked when they passed the bakery. Hank couldn't keep from looking in the front window. Warren Foster was surely inside, helping his customers with a smile and a good word, a far cry from the man who'd insinuated that Hank had had a hand in his daughter nearly drowning.

“I want you out of my house!”

“Boy, I wish someone would try to give
me
forty dollars,” Skip said as he stuck his hand out the window, letting the wind turn it this way and that.

“You'd be thrilled if it was a couple of quarters.”

“True,” his friend replied, nodding. “Which should tell you how bananas I think you are for turning down four sawbucks.”

For as long as Hank could remember, Skip had been obsessed with making money. Even as a boy, he'd sold newspapers, collected scrap metal in his wagon, trimmed bushes, whatever it took to make sure there were a few coins rattling around in his pocket. Skip's father was an auto mechanic, a lazy man who was slow to get out of bed in the morning, rarely completed a job on time, and struggled to pay his bills. Hank had always figured that the reason Skip was the exact opposite of his old man was because he was afraid of ending up like him.

“What about Gwen?” Skip asked. “Is she gonna be all right?”

“I reckon so.” That morning, Hank had called Grant Held. While the doctor hadn't been forthcoming with details, he'd said that Gwen would be back on her feet in a couple of days.

“So what was she like?”

“Beats me. I didn't really talk to her. She passed out as soon as I hauled her from the river.”

Skip shook his head. “That's not what I mean. I'm askin' if she's still as pretty as she used to be. Gwen was always one heck of a looker.”

If Hank could have brought himself to be honest, he would've admitted that Gwen Foster was beautiful. Looking at her as she lay on the riverbank in her drenched clothes, radiant in the moonlight with strands of wet hair splayed across her face, had made his heart pound. Even when she was unconscious, leaning against the door where Skip now sat or lying in her parents' living room, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She'd captivated him. Later, after he had gone home and found his father still snoring on the couch, Hank had lain awake for hours, staring up at his bedroom ceiling, wondering if Gwen was going to be all right, wishing that he'd insisted on staying until the doctor arrived. As the hours slowly drifted past, he began to feel more and more foolish; after all, what was the point of pining for a woman engaged to another man? What sleep he'd had was brief and fitful.

“I didn't really notice,” he lied.

“When we were kids, I always wanted to ask her to a school dance.”

“Why didn't you?”

Skip shrugged. “I guess I figured she wouldn't be interested.”

Though he never would have said it out loud, Hank thought that his friend was probably right. Skip Young was far from the most handsome man that Buckton had to offer. He'd always reminded Hank of Ichabod Crane, the awkward schoolmaster of Sleepy Hollow. He was tall and thin, gangly, all elbows and knees, with a prominent Adam's apple and a nose like a beak. His strawberry-blond hair was so thin that it was only a matter of time before he was bald. Still, Skip's personality more than made up for any of his physical shortcomings. He was smart, funny, driven, and as loyal as a hound dog. The more Hank thought about it, the more he realized that he was selling his friend short. Maybe Gwen
would've
accepted.

Milt Duesenberg's filling station loomed ahead. Skip rapped his knuckles against the door. “Do me a favor and pull in,” he said. “I wanna grab a Coke before the game.”

Hank did as his friend asked, stopping short of the gas pumps. The red-and-white Coca-Cola machine sat between the station's two garage doors. Inside one of the garage bays, an Oldsmobile was hoisted up on a jack, but no one was working on it.

“You're buyin', right?” Skip asked when they'd gotten out of the truck.

“How do you figure that?”

“Remember last week when we stopped at that market outside Janesville? You said that if I spotted you a couple bucks for that set of chisels the owner had in that cracked display case, you'd—”

Hank interrupted. “All right, all right,” he said. “I believe you.” When it came to money, Skip's memory was encyclopedic.

He fished a couple of nickels out of his pocket and dropped the first into the soda machine's coin slot. It clinked around a bit before hitting bottom. Hank opened the door, grabbed a bottle, and pulled it free. Popping the cap on the opener, he handed the drink to Skip, who took a healthy pull.

“Boy, that sure hits the spot,” he said.

But then, when Hank stuck the other nickel into the machine, it sounded as if it traveled only half as far as the first. He grabbed a bottle, hoping that he'd misheard, but the soda wouldn't budge.

“You've got to be kidding me,” he grumbled.

“The coin got stuck,” Skip observed. “Give it a good whack.”

Hank slapped the side of the machine with the palm of his hand, once, twice, a third time, each harder than the last, until the nickel at last came free, falling to the bottom. He'd grabbed his drink, opened it, and started to swig the sweet beverage when he heard footsteps approaching from behind.

“What in the heck's goin' on out here?”

Milt Duesenberg strode purposefully toward him. The filling station owner held a large wrench in his hand. Smudges of grease darkened his hands, chin, and overalls. At first, he didn't seem particularly angry, but then he took a good long look at Hank. There was a flicker of recognition and his mood instantly went south; his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed.

“What're you up to, troublemaker?” he snarled, pointing the wrench at Hank. “You tryin' to bust into that machine? Steal from me?”

Before Hank could respond, Skip was between them playing the peacemaker, a broad, soothing smile on his face. “It's not like that at all, Mr. Duesenberg,” he explained. “His nickel got stuck on the way down. I told him to smack it. If there's anyone you should be sore at, it's me.”

Milt's glare softened, if only a bit. “I reckon that makes sense…” he said. “Does that to me, too, from time to time.”

But even as the man backed down, he kept looking over Skip's shoulder at Hank, as if he was reluctant to let it go.

“We'll be off as soon as we're done with our Cokes,” Skip added.

Milt nodded, then began slowly backing toward the pumps and his office beyond. Even at the doorway, he lingered, still watching Hank.

Hank stared right back.

“Don't let him get to you,” Skip said, still trying to smooth things over. “He's havin' a bad day, that's all.”

While Hank wished he could do as his friend suggested, just let the accusatory words fall away like water off a duck's back, he couldn't. No matter what he did, folks assumed the worst about him. He was a murderer. Nothing but trouble. Bad news. Someone to steer clear of. This was the way it was always going to be, and nothing he could ever do would change that. The only person who didn't judge him was Skip.

But even he didn't know the truth. Not all of it…

Skip chugged the rest of his Coke. “Come on,” he said, playfully slapping Hank on the shoulder. “We're gonna be late.”

Hank hesitated, still staring at the door to the filling station's office, practically daring Milt to come back and have it out, but he didn't.

“Get the lead out,” Skip hollered from the truck's cab.

Hank took a deep breath.

It isn't worth it…

Someday, he hoped, he would actually believe that.

Hank pulled into a gravel lot, the truck's tires skidding a bit on the loose stones. In front of them, a rough baseball diamond had been hewn out of an abandoned pasture; makeshift bases had been found and laid out, dirt had been piled high for a pitcher's mound, and the outfield came to an abrupt end where it met the encroaching woods. About a dozen men tossed balls back and forth, laughing and carrying on beneath the afternoon sun.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Hank asked.

“Of course I am,” Skip answered. “You love playin' ball, don't you dare say otherwise. Now get your glove and come on.”

For as long as Hank could remember, he'd been smitten with baseball. The heft of a bat in his hands, the deep sound the ball made when it thudded into a leather mitt, the smell of the dirt and grass…everything about the game spoke to him. He listened to it on the radio and once, one memorable July three years ago, had traveled to Crosley Field in Cincinnati with Pete to see a game in person, both brothers yelling themselves hoarse cheering the Reds on to victory.

Still, it had been a long time since he'd played.

Like he had with almost everything else in his life, Hank had walked away from baseball in the weeks and months after Pete's death. It had been easier that way, to isolate himself, to stay away from others, who didn't want him around anyway. His woodworking was his comfort, his way to take his mind off everything he'd lost. But then Skip had shown up with a bat, glove, and ball. When his friend had asked him to play, Hank felt a stirring in his chest and had surprised himself by accepting the offer.

When he and Skip approached the other players, Hank saw plenty of familiar faces: Rusty Pals, Tad White, Matt Glidden, all guys he'd grown up with in Buckton. Most of them offered a nod or wave in greeting, though no one said much or came over to shake his hand. It seemed that not everyone was as keen as Skip to have him join in their fun.

“What in the hell is
he
doin' here?”

Hank turned to see Jed Ringer coming toward them with a baseball bat slung over his shoulder like a gun. Two years older than Hank, Jed was considered to be one of the biggest troublemakers in town. Wherever he went, his mouth never stopped running, cracking wise and picking fights; tall and broad-shouldered, with thick, muscular arms, Jed was more than capable of backing up whatever trouble he talked himself into. When they were kids, Hank and Jed had scrapped plenty of times, playground brawls that left noses bloodied and chins bruised. They had
never
been friends. Hank counted a half dozen or so other men walking behind Jed. These toughs hung on the braggart's every word, reveling in the excitement that traveling in his wake brought.

“Who do you mean?” Skip asked, playing dumb.

“Like you gotta ask,” Jed answered with a sneer. Grabbing his bat, he pointed it at Hank. “The killer.”

Hank stiffened. This was why he'd been reluctant to come. His hands bunched into fists. If Jed was looking for a fight…

But Skip cut through the rising tension. “The only killin' that's gonna happen here today is what I do with my bat.” While some guys started laughing, including a couple who'd arrived with Jed, Skip tossed the bruiser a baseball. “Enough jawin'. Let's play.”

Jed angrily snatched the ball out of the air and dismissively answered, “Whatever.” But even as his team started to make their way to the other side of the field, his gaze lingered on Hank, just like Milt Duesenberg's back at the filling station.

Once again, Skip interrupted, putting his arm around his friend's shoulder and steering him away. “Don't pay him no mind. Jed's the sort who'll keep yappin' even if no one's listenin'. To tell you the truth, with the way he's always runnin' that mouth of his, I'm hopin' one day it'll break.”

Hank chuckled.

“That's the spirit,” Skip said. “Now let's kick their asses!”

When they took the field, Hank played shortstop while Skip pitched. At first it was hard for him to concentrate, his mind still struggling to let go of the things Jed had said. But with every pitch, he began to get more into the game. When a ground ball was sent rocketing toward him, Hank bent to scoop it but it skipped on a stone and hit him right in the chest. Fast as lightning, he picked it up and hurled it to first base, just beating the runner, who loudly protested—but from the beginning it was obvious his heart wasn't in it, that he knew he was out.

“That's the stuff!” Skip shouted in encouragement.