The Hero’s Sin (2 page)

“A minor one.” Guilt gnawed at Michael. His head ached, but not enough to keep him from anything he really wanted to do. “It’ll be fine by morning.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Michael said, then cleared the emotion from his throat. It had been a long time since anyone had been concerned about him. “You’d better get back to your guests.”

“And you better show tomorrow, buddy. I let you weasel out of being my best man, but I want you at my wedding, damn it. I’m only getting married once.”

“I’ll be there,” Michael promised.

After disconnecting the call, Michael ignored the nearly overwhelming temptation to turn on the television and switch on the Phillies. He’d gotten accustomed to the lack of electricity in the adobe hut where he’d lived in Niger, but enjoyed few things more than a beer and a baseball game.

Not giving himself time for second guessing, he rode the elevator to the hotel lobby, walked past the bored-looking clerk and headed for the black PT Cruiser he’d
parked in the hotel lot. It was the last car he would have chosen but the only one the busy rental agency at the airport had available.

Thirty minutes later, he pulled the PT Cruiser to the crowded curb across from his great aunt’s house and set the brake to keep the car from rolling down the hill. Somebody on the street had company, but he doubted it was his quiet, reserved aunt.

His aunt’s charming Victorian house was much as Michael remembered it, with flowers hanging from baskets on her wraparound porch and planted in beds in the front yard. But as he trudged up the sidewalk, he noticed that the lawn needed mowing and the porch could use a coat of paint. Aunt Felicia’s husband—Michael never had been able to think of the man as his uncle—would normally have taken care of those chores, but he’d been dead for three months.

If Murray were still alive, Michael wouldn’t be here.

And then only a screen door separated Michael from the house where he hadn’t been able to find refuge. The doorbell didn’t sound when he pressed the button so he rapped on the frame and waited. He heard voices and laughter. It seemed he’d misjudged Aunt Felicia, but it was too late to turn back.

“Just a minute.” He recognized the gentle, slightly melodic voice of his great-aunt.

He held his ground, wiping his damp palms on the legs of jeans too warm for the balmy summer night. He smelled molasses and brown sugar and guessed she’d baked a shoo-fly cake, her specialty, for her guests. Time seemed to stretch before she came into view. Considerably grayer and smaller than he remembered, she
moved slowly toward the door, then stopped as though she’d slammed into a barrier.

“Michael?” Her voice trembled. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Aunt Felicia.”

Her hand fluttered to her forehead to the exact spot where he knew his injury was, and he guessed he was black-and-blue. “Your head…”

“It’s nothing.” He shrugged to underscore his words.

He waited for her to invite him inside, but she just stood there staring at him. His throat felt so thick he wasn’t sure he could speak. He hadn’t seen her since his eighteenth birthday, the day Murray had kicked him out. That had been nine years ago.

He squinted. The years had taken their toll. Through the screen of the door, she looked every one of her seventy-plus years.

“I thought you were in Africa,” his aunt finally said, her voice no steadier than before.

He swallowed. “I only just got back to the States. I thought you should know I’m in town for Johnny’s wedding.”

He owed Aunt Felicia that much. She’d taken him in during that dark time after his mother had overdosed. Even though his aunt hadn’t been able to stand up to her husband in the end, he still remembered her trying to explain.

“If it was just me, you could stay,” she’d told him, tears trickling down her papery cheeks. “But I’m worn out from arguing with him about you.”

Michael had claimed to understand but hadn’t. Not back then. Back then he’d wanted somebody to want him. That’s probably why he hadn’t protested too long
or too hard when Chrissy insisted she was leaving Indigo Springs with him.

Nine years, he thought again. Chrissy had been dead for eight of them.

His aunt didn’t say anything now, her mouth working but no words emerging.

He cleared his throat. “Johnny told me about Murray. I’m sorry.” It was the truth. Michael didn’t wish anybody dead. Not even Murray.

“Felicia. It’s your turn.” A woman’s voice floated from the direction of the living room.

“Bridge night,” his aunt explained.

“Who’s at the door anyway?” A different, louder voice. One that sounded familiar.

“No one,” his aunt replied quickly, the answer stabbing through him like a jagged spear. She blinked a few times, shifted from foot to foot, her hand fluttering to her throat. Her eyes seemed to plead with him. “You understand I can’t invite you in.”

“I understand.” He gave the same answer he had years ago, but this time it was the truth. Aunt Felicia’s friends would be Indigo Springs long-timers. She had good reason to be ashamed of him. “I just wanted to be the one to tell you I was in town.”

Once he showed up at the wedding, the buzzing would start. It wouldn’t take long for word to reach Aunt Felicia.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“A hotel outside of town.”

“Felicia!” A different voice this time. “We’re waiting.”

His aunt’s face twisted with an emotion he couldn’t identify.

“You’d better go,” he told her and backed away from the door, chiding himself for expecting too much. He descended the creaky porch stairs and was almost to the sidewalk when her voice stopped him, so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

“Michael.”

He turned around, trying not to hope. “Yeah?”

“When are you leaving town?”

“Sunday morning,” he said.

“Could you stop by before you go?”

He started nodding before she finished the question, a flame of optimism leaping inside him. “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’ve got some of your things in the basement,” she said softly. “Nothing valuable, but you might want them back.”

Somehow he managed to tell her good-night before making his lonely way back to his rental car. He wished like hell he hadn’t promised Johnny he’d come to the wedding.

Some people really couldn’t go home again.

It seemed he was one of them.

“I
NEVER
saw anybody cry so much at a wedding!”

Sara tried not to wince as she regarded the short, middle-aged woman in front of her in the receiving line at the VFW hall, which was decorated in soft pastels to reflect the varying colors of the bridesmaid’s dresses.

So much for creating a first impression of toughness, a quality most people sought in a lawyer.

Sara couldn’t even console herself with the fiction that few of the wedding guests had noticed her tears. Three women had offered her tissues. This woman—she’d introduced herself as Marie Dombrowski—hadn’t been sitting anywhere near her.

“Weddings do that to me,” Sara said as they passed through an arch of silk flowers interspersed with white netting and approached the receiving line. “I can’t seem to help myself.”

Marie patted Sara on the arm, sympathy practically oozing from her. “Don’t worry, dear. Someday it’ll be your turn.”

“You’ve got it wrong. That’s not why—” Sara began.

“Being a romantic is nothing to be ashamed of,” Marie interrupted. “But of course you know that. Only a romantic would wear an adorable dress like that.”

Sara smoothed a hand down the skirt of the paisley-print, triple-flounced sleeveless dress she wore with matching pink-and-red-satin sandals. She’d bought the dress on a whim while shopping for a new work wardrobe that wasn’t so stuffy. The look was ultra-feminine, a drastic change of pace from the structured suits she used to wear no matter the occasion.

“Thank you,” Sara said, “but nobody’s ever called me a romantic before. Especially not the men I’ve dated.”

“Then none of them must’ve been right for you,” Marie declared. She herself was wearing a pink knee-length dress with tiny appliquéd hearts on the bodice.

“I wasn’t right for them, either. Lawyers don’t generally make good girlfriends.”

“Now I know who you are!” Marie exclaimed, looking delighted with herself. “You bought that empty storefront on Main Street. Aren’t you an old friend of the bride’s from high school?”

“That’s right. But how did you know that?”

“Oh, honey. Indigo Springs may be turning into a tourist town, but among the locals nothing’s a mystery. Isn’t that right, Frank?” She nudged the stout, silent man at her elbow she’d introduced as her husband. He startled as though he’d been awakened from a nap even though they were among the last guests to arrive and the decibel level in the hall grew louder by the second.

“Oh, yes.” His smile included both Sara and his wife. “Whatever you say, dear.”

“In this case,” Sara said, “I’m hoping the story about me crying at the wedding doesn’t get around.”

“Are you kidding?” Marie exclaimed. “That’s the
only thing people would be talking about if it wasn’t for Michael Donahue.”

Marie and her husband reached the front of the receiving line before Sara could ask who Michael Donahue was. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard the name. While she’d waited outside the church for the newly married couple to emerge, two elderly men had been discussing him.

“You’re sure it was Donahue?” one of the men had asked in a loud voice.

“’Course I am. Came in late and sat in the last pew. Slipped out before the ceremony ended, too.”

The loud man had whistled. “Wonder what Quincy Coleman will do when he finds out he’s back.”

Who was Michael Donahue? And who, for that matter, was Quincy Coleman?

Sara put her curiosity on hold as she approached the parents of the bride, who were first in the receiving line and whom Sara had met once before. But the question was still tapping at the back of her mind as she reintroduced herself to Penelope’s mother and father and greeted the groom’s parents.

Penelope could surely enlighten her about Michael Donahue, but it became apparent now wasn’t the time to question her when the bride squealed.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” Penelope threw her arms around Sara, crinkling the bodice of her white gown against Sara’s chest and enveloping her in the scent of perfume. Penelope drew back and asked, “Is it true you cried through the ceremony?”

Sara laughed. “True. But it was your fault for looking so happy.”

“I
am
happy.” With her light-brown hair in an updo and eye makeup playing up her huge dark eyes, Penelope looked lovely. She beamed at her new husband, formally attired in a gray pin-striped tuxedo. “I’m the luckiest woman in the world.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Johnny Pollock winked at his bride. He was neither tall nor short, his features neither ugly nor handsome, his hair color neither blond nor brown. He was average in every way—until he smiled, transforming him into something special. “Nice to see you again, Sara.”

Sara had barely returned Johnny’s greeting when Penelope captured both of Sara’s hands in hers. “I never thought you’d leave that big law firm, but I’m so glad you did. I hope you love it here as much as I do.”

Love was the reason Penelope had relocated to Indigo Springs. Weeks after she’d made a sales call to Johnny’s construction company peddling industrial piping, he’d asked her to marry him. She’d dumped the job and gained a husband.

“I’m already starting to,” Sara said.

“Now go circulate.” Penelope beckoned her close and whispered in her ear. “I’m trying to figure out who the eligible men are, but forget about Johnny’s best man. Chase is hot, but his girlfriend and her little boy are living with him and they have a baby on the way.”

Sara rolled her eyes. Weddings, like no other events, seemed to bring out the matchmakers. “I’m starting a career, not looking for a man.”

Penelope grinned. “Then I’ll look for you. Only not today. I’m a little busy.”

Sara moved down the receiving line, but before she got to the best man, who was indeed handsome, a redhead in a tight green dress pulled him aside. The redhead complained loudly that he wasn’t paying her enough attention.

The poor guy was trying so hard to get her to lower her voice that Sara pretended not to notice and stepped into the reception hall.

She was used to elegant weddings with sit-down dinners and soft music, perhaps from a classically trained pianist or a string ensemble. A quartet of middle-aged men, including a saxophonist and an accordionist, were setting up what Sara guessed was a polka band near a spacious dance floor. Waitstaff arranged steaming platters of food on a bountiful buffet table.

The VFW hall was loud and crowded, with wedding guests filling up long, skinny tables. Artificial flower arrangements added color to the tables, which were covered in white cloth like the chairs. As a finishing touch, oversized pastel bows had been tied to the backs of each seat. Sara skirted the periphery of the room, searching for a place to sit.

“Over here, Sara!” Marie Dombrowski beckoned her to a nearby spot, where she sat with her silent husband. “Come join me and Frank.”

Sara smiled, grateful for the invitation. Before she took a step, something made her look in the direction of the receiving line, which had started to break up as the wedding party made its way to the bridal table. Only Penelope, Johnny and his father remained.

Johnny grinned hugely before embracing a tall man with short dark hair who seemed vaguely familiar.
Johnny held on to the other man for long seconds, patting him repeatedly and enthusiastically on the back.

“Are you coming, Sara?” Marie Dombrowski called.

“In a minute.” Sara held up a finger, her attention still riveted by the groom and the stranger.

The two men drew apart. Sara had judged Johnny to be five ten or eleven when she’d stood next to him. The stranger topped him by a good three or four inches. His posture was proud, almost defiant, and he wore a gray suit a few shades lighter than Johnny’s tuxedo that looked good on his athletic frame.

Johnny’s father came forward, embracing the stranger just as enthusiastically as his son had before somebody called him away. Then Johnny grabbed Penelope’s hand and pulled her close, no doubt to introduce her. The angle of the stranger’s head changed, and Sara got a good look at his hard, handsome face.

She inhaled sharply. If she hadn’t been sure of the man’s identity, the bruise on his forehead would have been a dead giveaway.

It was the hero from the river.

“Y
OU’RE AS
pretty as Johnny said you were.” Michael extended a hand to Johnny’s bride, a slender brunette with her hair piled high on her head, wisps of it falling charmingly about her face.

“Thank you.” Her eyes flew to his forehead, and she winced. “I see why you didn’t come to the rehearsal dinner. What happened?”

“Nothing worth repeating,” Michael said. Until she mentioned it, he’d almost forgotten he’d used the injury
as an excuse. “Just glad I could be here to see my old buddy get married.”

“That’s right. You grew up with Johnny. He told me all about you.” Her smile seemed genuine, which meant Johnny hadn’t told her
everything
about him. “Will you be in town long?”

“I’m just here for the wedding.”

“That’s too bad. I don’t understand why anybody would ever want to leave Indigo Springs. I absolutely adore it here.”

Michael felt the muscles holding up his smile tighten. That confirmed it. Johnny hadn’t filled Penelope in on the whole story. “I hope you’ll be happy here.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” Johnny hugged her to his side.

“Okay, lovebirds, you’re needed at the main table.” A woman in a flowing floral-print dress called as she bustled toward them. She stopped short, gaping at Michael as though his suit jacket was stained with blood. He mentally subtracted the woman’s extra pounds and the gray in her hair and recognized Johnny’s aunt Ida. Before Michael could greet her, she looked past him to Johnny and Penelope. “Everybody’s waiting on you so the best man can give the toast and people can eat.”

She turned away without acknowledging Michael, not that he expected her to, not when he remembered her as one of Chrissy’s mother’s closest friends. Ida had pledged her allegiance years ago, and it hadn’t been to him.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder. “Don’t worry about Aunt Ida,” Johnny reassured him. “I’m glad you’re here. Maybe we can catch up later.”

Michael nodded, although there was little chance of
that happening at a reception of more than a hundred people. Johnny knew it, too. He slapped Michael on the shoulder. “Good seeing you, man.”

“Always,” Michael said.

Dropping his hand, Johnny escorted his bride into the main part of the hall to a bridal table decorated with tall candles, fresh flowers and draped garlands.

Michael surveyed the wedding guests chatting happily to one another and knew what it felt like to be alone in a crowd. Most were strangers, but he recognized some of them, none of whom he felt comfortable approaching.

He waited a few beats, then headed for the exit and the parking lot, pretending he wasn’t in a hurry. He’d considered himself lucky to find a parking space, but a now a white van blocked his escape route. The scripted red letters on the side of the vehicle read
Catering Solutions: We cook so you don’t have to.
The driver’s seat was empty.

“Damn.” There was no getting around it. He needed to re-enter the hall and locate the caterers, no matter how much it might send tongues wagging.

Even as he lectured himself on the cold reality of his situation, he wished things were different. Wished, for instance, that the woman with the red highlights in her long brown hair was headed for him instead of the parking lot.

He’d noticed her at the church, partly because she wore a ridiculously feminine dress with high-heeled sandals that added inches to her tall frame and showed off a killer set of legs. With a slightly long nose and a wide mouth, she wasn’t classically beautiful as much
as she was damn attractive. But it wasn’t only her looks that captured his attention. It was the poise with which she moved, the intelligence in her expression that told him he’d enjoy getting to know her.

Not that there was a chance in hell of that happening.

Then she smiled.

He checked behind him, but the parking lot and front sidewalk were deserted except for him. It wasn’t yet dusk so he’d clearly seen her welcoming expression.

He expected her to keep on walking, for her smile to vanish. But it widened, reaching large eyes the same light brown as the cream soda Aunt Felicia used to buy when he was a teenager.

When she stopped before him, there could be no mistaking it—the smile was for him.

“You’re my hero,” she said.

He felt the corners of his mouth drop. Was she someone from his past playing a sick joke? She was about his age. About the age Chrissy would have been had she lived. But, no. He didn’t know her. This was a woman he wouldn’t have forgotten.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

Admiration gleamed in her eyes, as easy to read as the red block letters on the white sign in front of the VFW hall. The members of the Veterans of Foreign Wars were heroes, not him.

“I saw you,” she said. “At the river. When you saved that boy.”

She
didn’t
know him. Didn’t know about the sin in his past. The tension slowly left him as he put together
the pieces. She must have been along on the raft trip when the boy had fallen overboard into the white water.

“You were wonderful,” she added.

He frowned. “I didn’t do anything anyone else wouldn’t have done.”

“Are you joking?” Her cream-soda eyes widened, disbelief touching her lips. “You rode that rapid without a raft. You could have drowned along with that boy.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with her exaggeration. He knew enough about the Lehigh to go feet-first down a rapid, which had substantially lessened the danger. “Yeah, well, both of us made it through okay.”

She reached up and traced her fingers lightly against his temple, the gesture kindling a warmth inside him even though her touch was as soft as the brush of a feather. “Except for this nasty bump.”

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled.