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Twin dimples appeared on Mr. Pollock’s face, making him look boyish. “Then maybe you can persuade him to stick around for a while. Our boy here’s a world traveler. Did he tell you he just got back from Africa?”
Africa?
“I didn’t think so,” Mr. Pollock said before Sara recovered from the surprise. To Michael, he said, “Please tell me you’re staying in the States for a while.”
“Can’t do that,” Michael said. “I already applied for another assignment, probably in Ghana, but maybe in El Salvador.”
As they spoke, Sara was aware of other guests watching them. Watching Michael . But even though the reception was at least an hour old, only Mr. Pollock had approached him. She wondered why.
“If you ever decide to stay put, you know you have a job with me.” Mr. Pollock was about to say more when a willowy girl in her early teens with a mouthful of braces grabbed his hand.
“You said you’d dance with me, Uncle Nick,” she said, pulling him away as she spoke.
“Can you believe how shy this girl is,” he called to them over his shoulder, but he was laughing. “Catch you both later.”
Michael turned back around in his seat.
“Ghana? El Salvador?” Sara listed the countries. “I thought you said you were in construction.”
“ Overseas construction,” he said. “I go where the work is.”
“Isn’t all that moving around tough on you?”
“It suits me,” he said.
“Not me. My dad was a navy JAG so we never stayed in one place for long when I was growing up. I think that’s why Indigo Springs appeals to me. You can put down roots here.”
He was silent.
“How long ago did you leave?” she asked.
“Nine years.” He gave her a wry smile. “And it’s time I left again. That catering truck should be gone by now.”
“You can’t go yet!” Sara reached across the table and placed her hand over his, feeling electricity shoot right to her core. The orchestra began to play a lively tune. “Not until you teach me to polka.”
He arched one of his dark eyebrows. “What makes you think I can polka?”
“You and Johnny are friends, so you must have picked it up somewhere along the way.” Her hand still covered his, even though there was no reason for it. She withdrew it reluctantly and stood up, knocking over a half-filled glass of white wine that splashed over her dress. “Oh, no! I need to run to the restroom and blot up this mess. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”
She grabbed his arm and looked into his eyes, which were blue-gray, like the color of the river water. He nodded, but didn’t reply. She reluctantly let go and hurried to the restroom, casting a glance over her shoulder.
Despite the connection she felt when she touched him, she wasn’t sure Michael would be waiting when she returned.
M ICHAEL WATCHED the couples on the floor, deliberately not meeting anyone’s eyes. As soon as he danced one polka with Sara, he was out of here. He wouldn’t have stayed this long if not for that catering truck.
He expelled a short breath. Who was he kidding? The driver had probably moved that truck an hour ago. The reason Michael hadn’t left yet was wearing a pink and red dress.
“What the hell are you doing here, Donahue?” The words were slurred, but Michael recognized the voice before he saw the speaker.
Kenny Grieb, the ex-high-school jock Chrissy had dated before Michael. He wasn’t as lean or as muscular as he’d been in high school, but the bitterness in his expression was the same.
“I was invited,” Michael said.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Kenny drawled, moving closer as he talked. His floppy brown hair was untidy, his shirt coming loose from his dress slacks, his face flushed.
Michael had never been afraid of Kenny and wasn’t now, but put his hand up like a stop sign. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Too late.” Kenny took another step and nearly tripped over an empty chair. It upended and clattered to the floor, drawing attention.
If Michael didn’t get out of here soon, Kenny would create a scene and cast an ugly pall over Johnny’s wedding day.
Michael glanced in the direction Sara had gone but didn’t see her. Regret seized him that he wouldn’t get a chance to say goodbye, but it couldn’t be helped.
“I was just leaving,” he said.
“That’s right,” Kenny yelled, his voice competing with the polka music. “Get out and don’t come back.”
Michael’s hands fisted at his sides, but for Johnny’s sake he said nothing. He stopped only long enough to intercept Marie Dombrowski and ask her to give Sara his apologies.
Then he left, a prospect that no longer held the same appeal now that he’d met Sara.
Dusk had settled over the town, but the temperature had dipped into what felt like the sixties, downright cool compared to Niger’s heart. He removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie, trying not to look back.
That was a problem of his. He usually couldn’t help looking back.
The catering truck was no longer double-parked behind his rental car, clearing a path for him to drive away from the reception. Away from Indigo Springs. Away from Sara, who had been a pipe dream anyway.
He took the keys out of his pocket and hit the remote. The lights of his PT Cruiser blinked on, sounding a short, shrill beep at the same time somebody called, “Not so fast, asshole.”
Great.
Kenny Grieb had followed him.
CHAPTER THREE
S ARA RUSHED BACK to the table, her dress damp from where she’d blotted up the wine. Her round trip had taken longer than expected because Johnny’s father waylaid her when she was exiting the restroom.
“Great to see you and Michael hitting it off,” Nick Pollock had said. “I get the feeling he doesn’t socialize much in the Peace Corps.”
“The Peace Corps!” Sara repeated. Why hadn’t she put that together herself when she learned of the far-flung places Michael had worked? “He never told me he was a volunteer.”
“Didn’t think he would. He’s sort of a serial volunteer. Been signing up for two-year assignments since he put himself through college. Holding down a full-time job at the time. He probably didn’t tell you that, either.”
“No,” Sara said. “But why are you telling me?”
“Because Michael’s a good man,” he’d said enigmatically, his expression suddenly serious. “Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
“Why would anyone say differently?”
He’d sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Michael had it tough growing up. Did a couple of things he shouldn’t have. Angered some people. But he got through it and turned himself into somebody to be proud of.”
Stop talking in circles! she wanted to yell. Instead she thanked him for enlightening her, a sixth sense urging her to hurry back to Michael. His empty chair confirmed her intuition that he’d been about to bolt.
She surveyed the smiling couples twirling around the dance floor as the polka music played, hoping she was wrong, hoping Michael was among them. Somehow she knew she wouldn’t find him.
Marie Dombrowski spotted her and separated herself from her husband, her brows pinched together in what looked like sympathy. “Michael asked me to tell you he had to go.”
Sara must not have kept the dismay from her face, because Marie squeezed her hand. “I don’t think he wanted to leave, but another man—I didn’t recognize him but I do know he was drunk—was creating a scene. It seemed to me Michael left so there wouldn’t be trouble.”
Sara thought over what Nick Pollock had told her, but she didn’t have enough information about Michael’s past to figure out why somebody would accost him.
“He’s only been gone a few minutes,” Marie added. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch him.”
“Thanks.” Sara didn’t hesitate, heading for the exit as fast as her high heels would carry her. Before Michael disappeared, maybe forever, she at least wanted to say goodbye.
It wasn’t yet fully dark, but the outside lights were on, making it easy to spot Michael in the parking lot. Relief flooding her, she hurried down the sidewalk, then stopped dead. He wasn’t alone. A man who had at least thirty pounds on Michael was charging him. The man cocked his arm, drew his shoulder back and let his fist fly.
“No!” Sara yelled, rushing forward to stop the madness.
Michael lifted a forearm, deftly blocking the punch. Then in a lightning quick motion, he grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it around his back, effectively incapacitating him.
“Leggo,” the man groaned, obviously in discomfort, obviously drunk.
“Not until you understand me.” Michael’s low, firm voice carried toward Sara. “If you cause another scene at my friend’s wedding, I’ll make you regret it.”
He released the man’s arm and shoved him. The man stumbled backward, nearly falling before catching his balance.
“Go drink some black coffee,” Michael ordered harshly.
The man’s face, slack from too much alcohol, filled with what looked like hatred. “Go back where you came from,” he muttered. “No one wants you here.”
It looked as though the man was thinking about initiating another attack, but he rejected the notion, returning to the VFW hall on unsteady feet.
“You.” He pointed at Sara as he passed her, his finger shaky. “You should watch who you ’sociate with.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Without waiting for his response, she walked to where Michael was bending down to pick up his suit jacket from the pavement.
Michael straightened, his suit jacket in hand, and gave her a wry look. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She looked toward the hall, confirming that the troublemaker had disappeared inside the building. “What I saw was you keeping that jerk from making trouble at your friend’s wedding.”
“I won’t argue with you there. Kenny Grieb’s bad news when he’s drunk.”
“What does he have against you?” Sara asked.
“A grudge,” Michael said, “which is why I’m leaving.”
She’d half expected him to be gone already when she came looking for him, but his declaration seemed to knock the wind from her. “What if I asked you not to go yet?”
“I wish things were different.” His eyes ran over her face like a caress. “But for your sake I should have left hours ago. I’m not exactly Mr. Popular.”
She couldn’t argue with that, but not everybody inside the hall had been hostile. Excluding the Pollocks, Michael hadn’t reached out to a single person. “You’re not exactly Mr. Congeniality either.”
He stared at her for a moment, then broke into a laugh. “Are you always this blunt?”
“Not always,” she said, “but usually.”
If she completely spoke her mind, she’d ask for details about why some people had a problem with him. Because she sensed the topic was a raw spot, she could wait until he was ready to tell her.
“Do you have a problem with an outspoken woman?” she asked.
“I have a problem with a woman jeopardizing her reputation in town by hanging out with me.”
“What reputation?” she retorted. “I just moved here. I don’t have a reputation.”
“You should be building one, and a wedding’s a good place to start.” He gestured toward the hall. “It’s not too late. Go network, make some new friends.”
“I can make friends tomorrow or the next day or the day after that,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere. But you are.”
“That’s right.” He looked toward the parking lot, then at her. If she hadn’t read regret in his gaze, she might have let him go.
“You don’t have to go until tomorrow morning, right? You don’t have anything pressing you need to do tonight? Anywhere you need to be?”
He narrowed his eyes as though it was a trick question. “No,” he said slowly.
“Then you can walk me home, because I’m leaving the reception, too.” She headed through the parking lot to the sidewalk adjacent to the street, her stomach turning somersaults at the prospect he might refuse. She didn’t know why she couldn’t let him leave just yet; she just knew that she couldn’t. “Coming?” she called over her shoulder.
She reached the sidewalk before conceding that he wasn’t following her. She took a deep breath, then turned around. He stood with his jacket in hand, his face half in shadows.
This is it, she thought, a lump forming in her throat.
This is goodbye.
“I can’t leave my car here,” he said. “Kenny Grieb knows where it’s parked.”
She released the breath she’d been holding, alleviating the strain on her lungs. Without letting him in on the relief that made her legs feel weak, she strode toward him on her high-heeled shoes.
“Then let’s move your car,” she said.
M ICHAEL FELT as though he’d been transported to an alternate universe.
After Sara directed him to a parking space in a lot adjacent to a real-estate office, they’d taken a sidewalk that led through the heart of Indigo Springs. Despite architecture dating back more than a hundred years, he barely recognized the town.
“Tell me again why we didn’t park in the block where you live,” Michael said.
“I said you could walk me home, not drive me home,” she said. A woman who knew her own mind, he thought.
Restaurants, only a few of which were familiar, were doing a brisk business. Photographers, crafters, glass blowers and painters had taken over previously abandoned storefronts. A bike shop seemed to be on every block. People who looked like tourists strolled the sidewalks.
