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But Poplar Hill was a narrow, two-lane, tree-lined road, and the high-school rush hour had just begun. She growled under her breath and then yawned again. God, she was so tired she didn’t even have the energy to be properly annoyed.
Drumming the steering wheel, she craned her neck, but she couldn’t see anything. She didn’t have time for this. She hadn’t had a spare minute in the past three years. College and work, handling the house and raising her little brother… At only twenty-two, she was so tired she felt about fifty.
She couldn’t be late today. She was in her first year of teaching seventh grade at Heyday Middle School, and she had a faculty meeting in fifteen minutes. She wasn’t a football player, so she was expected to be on time and fully prepared.
Darn it, she should never have printed out Steve’s paper. All the parenting books, which she’d devoured in secret as soon as she’d realized she was going to have to take over the job, said you should let your kids suffer the consequences of their own mistakes.
But Steve was such a good kid, really. And hadn’t he suffered enough already? No one should be an orphan at fourteen.
So maybe she overindulged him. Or maybe not. Oh, heck, she didn’t have a clue what was right. Maybe even real parents struggled to find the proper balance.
She eyed the area, wondering where she might be able to wriggle her car into a U-turn. The ground was soggy on the easements from last night’s pre-winter rain, and the pines were still dripping wet.
It always rained in Heyday in November. Probably someone had skidded on the slick pavement and kissed fenders with the car in front of them.
But why such a snarl-up? A few people—parents, high-schoolers, even teachers—had exited their cars and were walking forward to see if they could get a look at the problem. Claire didn’t have time for gawking. She rolled down her window. Maybe she could persuade the guy in front to inch his car forward so she could get free.
Oh, good. It was Doug Metzler from the bank. He’d be eager to help her. He knew that if she lost her new job she wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage—and his bank held the note.
“Doug,” she called. “Do you mind moving up a little? I can’t get out.”
The balding, middle-aged man whipped around as if she’d shot him. He stared at her, a strange, blank expression on his normally pleasant face.
“Claire!” He put both hands up toward his cheeks, and they froze there. “Oh my God.” He began looking around, as if he needed help. “Oh my God.”
She had time for only a couple of half thoughts. Was Doug drunk? Crazy? Had she caught him doing something he shouldn’t be doing? But even in those confused fractions of seconds, her subconscious must have registered something more sinister, because instinctively she began to climb out of her car.
“What’s the matter, Doug?”
The man didn’t speak. She’d just barely set both feet on the soggy ground when Officer Bill Johnson appeared.
“Claire,” the policeman said. His face was gray, and, unless she was imagining it, his voice shook. “Claire, don’t go up there.”
She tilted her head, confused. “I wasn’t going to,” she said. “Why? What’s going on?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Doug Metzler was still frozen in place. A few others had joined him. They were all staring at Claire. Something sick and liquid began to boil in her stomach, like the beginnings of an internal earthquake.
“What’s going on?” She gripped the door, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking just like Officer Johnson’s voice. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the line of cars. Was that a blue flashing light? Was that larger vehicle an ambulance?
She looked back at the young policeman. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Steve,” Officer Johnson said, and this time his voice did break. “Claire. It’s…it’s Steve.”
No. No. That was ridiculous. This had nothing to do with Steve. Steve was at football practice, tossing that little brown ball high into the blue morning air for some other teenage boy to catch. Yes, Steve was safe at football practice, boyish and muddy and sweaty.
And happy. Steve was always happy.
She shook her head. “No,” she said.
“Yes,” the policeman said. “You see he… Steve…”
Claire felt her mind going limp, balking like a child, refusing to be led to whatever terrible place he was trying to take her. Bill Johnson was so young, she thought. Just a kid. What did he know? He was no more than four years older than Steve himself.
He tried again. “It… Steve must have been going very… It was an accident, a terrible accident.”
She frowned. Look at him, he was close to tears. He looked so distressed, so completely undone. She wondered if she should put her arm around him. But she discovered to her horror that she couldn’t move her arm. How odd. It was like sleepwalking. She couldn’t feel any part of her body.
And when she spoke, her voice sounded strange. Hollow and slow, like something recorded at the wrong speed. “What do you mean an accident? What do you mean it’s Steve?”
“I guess it was just too dark.” Officer Johnson’s face was suddenly running with tears that gleamed in the rising sun. “I guess he was going too fast. I’m sorry, Claire. I’m so sorry. I guess he hit a tree.”
“Hit a—”
But the legs she couldn’t feel decided right then to fold up under her like wet paper. She slid down, still holding on to the open car door. The muddy ground was cool and dark as she met it.
She lost track of time, just a little, like a clock with an unreliable battery. When her heart began to tick again, she was surprised to hear Kieran McClintock’s voice, very close to her.
“Claire,” he said. “Claire, are you all right?”
She realized she was in his arms. She looked up at him.
“He said Steve had an accident,” she whispered, as if she needed to keep the news a secret. As if making the information public would make it true. “Can you take me to him? I’m not sure I can walk, but I have to get there. Steve needs me.”
Kieran’s face worried her. Anguish was written all over his handsome features, turning his clear blue eyes to hot, shadowed volcano beds. Turning his rugged jaw to jagged steel, his full, wide mouth to a razor line of bloodless white.
“Claire, sweetheart, Steve never made it to practice. He had an accident.”
Strange, she thought, that a mouth so fierce, so twisted with pain, could speak in such gentle tones. His arms tightened around her. “It was very bad. He didn’t make it, Claire. He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
He shut his eyes, and it was a relief not to have to look into their tortured depths.
“Yes, he said. “I’m so sorry, Claire. Steve’s dead.”
Dead…
Not playing football, not laughing, not running, not even breathing.
Dead.
She shut her eyes, too, as the knife blade of the word sank deep into her chest. She felt her heart’s blood gush everywhere, she tasted the metallic hot ice of the cruel steel, and then, thank God, the terrible black universe began to disappear again.
My little brother is dead.
She wasn’t sure whether she spoke that sentence or merely thought it. But she heard herself say the next one.
And you killed him.
CHAPTER TWO
Two years later
KIERAN MCCLINTOCK RUBBED the stinging red spot just above his swim trunks where the latest water balloon had landed and wondered if his reflexes might be getting a little slow. That made eight hits already, and it wasn’t even noon. He couldn’t seem to duck, dodge or jump out of the way fast enough.
The darn things hurt, too. High-school boys really threw some heat these days. He scowled at the one who had just nailed him in the gut.
“Ingrate,” he called as the boy chuckled and scooted away.
“Golly, Coach, I’ll bet that smarts.” Suddenly a female voice purred in his ear, and a soft female hand rested over his. “Need any help with that?”
“Hi, Linda.” Kieran didn’t need to look up to know whose hand it was. No one but Linda Tremel would dream of rubbing the football coach’s wet, naked stomach in public. He moved her fingers away. “Thanks, but I’ll live.”
Linda pouted, but otherwise she took the rejection in stride. She was quite used to being rejected by Kieran—she was his neighbor. Since her divorce, she’d been programmed to bait her hooks automatically whenever she saw any man. She didn’t really expect him to bite.
She adjusted her large straw sun hat to a prettier angle and surveyed the chaos in front of them, where Heyday High’s annual Junior-Senior Send-off was in full swing. About a hundred students and their families were slip-sliding on water toys, hobbling in three-legged races and gnawing on cold fried chicken legs and deviled eggs.
She sighed and fanned herself with her paper napkin. Summer had come in swinging this year. The temperature was already in the nineties.
“I’d take off my cover-up, but I’m not sure these hormonal young boys could control themselves,” she said. “It’s bad enough that you’ve got every female under fifty salivating over your six-pack, stud. Think you should toss a shirt on and put them out of their misery?”
Kieran didn’t respond. Linda always talked like that. In fact, she never talked about anything but sex. Kieran suspected that might mean she wasn’t really all that interested in it. Protesting too much, as they said.
Besides, he saw a couple of his best players huddled over by the ice chest, and he could imagine what they were plotting. The next water balloon was probably going to be filled with Gatorade. He could only hope they had one of the other teachers in mind for this one.
All the faculty, right up to the principal, were here today. Even the school volunteers had showed up—like Linda. The Send-off was the highlight of the school year. Each May, just before the start of final exams, the junior class hosted a water party for the outgoing seniors. It had been a Heyday tradition for at least fifty years.
Heyday was big on tradition. Kieran’s father, who had, until his death less than two months ago, owned most of Heyday, had always said that tradition was what the little town had instead of culture, prominence, wealth or wisdom.
“So, I hear you’ve got another superstar coming along next season, Coach. You know the one.” Linda tilted her head. “What’s his name? Nice muscles. Bedroom eyes.”
“Bedroom eyes?” Kieran looked at her. “I have no idea who you’re talking about, but you’d better watch it, Linda. These boys are underage.”
“Well, he does have sexy eyes.” She grinned from under the wide brim of her hat. “I can’t help noticing, can I? Oh, what is his name? The boy everyone is saying could be the new Steve Strickland. Eddie-something.”
“Eddie Mackey?” Kieran wondered where Linda had heard about Eddie. “He’s good, but he’s not on the team yet. He’s not sure he wants to play.”
“Oh, you can talk him into it. You can talk anybody into anything. Steve Strickland didn’t want to play at first, either, and look how good he turned out to be.”
Kieran tossed his empty Gatorade bottle into the recycling bin. “Of course Steve wanted to play,” he said. He hoped he didn’t sound defensive. “Where did you hear that he didn’t want to play?”
“I don’t remember…” Linda chewed on her lower lip. “Oh, that’s right. It was his sister who didn’t want him to play. That’s what I heard. They say Claire hated the idea of Steve playing football. I never understood why. Was she afraid he’d get hurt or something?”
That was stupid, even for Linda. Instantly, she realized her mistake and drew in a deep breath. “I mean—you know. In a game. Like getting tackled or something. Naturally, no one could have imagined he’d end up—”
“No.” Kieran popped open another drink and downed half of it in one gulp. It really was hot out here. “No one could have imagined that.”
“Where is she now, do you know?”
Kieran squinted into the sunlight, trying to see if the people barbecuing hot dogs needed any help. “Who?”
“Claire. Do you know if she’s still in Richmond?”
“No.”
Linda flicked him with her napkin. “Be specific,” she said. “Do you mean no, she’s not in Richmond, or no, you don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“You haven’t seen her since—”
“No.”
“Do you think she’s still angry? Do you think she still blames you for—”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll bet she doesn’t.” Linda unbuttoned her top two buttons, exposing as much cleavage as possible, and began fanning herself again. “I mean, how could she? It didn’t make any sense to start with. I mean, you didn’t force the kid to drive seventy miles an hour down Poplar Hill, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
According to Claire, though, that was just a cop-out. He had put too much pressure on the players, she’d said, her voice filled with tears and fury. He had expected them to do the impossible, and, because they had loved him, they’d tried to deliver.
At least that’s what she told him the night she called and asked him not to come to the funeral.
“See? You didn’t have a thing to do with it. Claire Strickland just went a little crazy, that’s all. She wasn’t thinking straight, and she needed someone to blame.”
Kieran did not want to have this conversation. Especially not with Linda Tremel, who didn’t have an ounce of imagination. She could never understand how, when Kieran had held Claire in his arms and told her Steve was dead, it had been like holding a ghost. She had seemed completely empty, as insubstantial as smoke. He had thought, for a minute, that she might just float away forever.
He scanned the crowd, desperately seeking a savior. But being with Linda Tremel was like acquiring leprosy—even your best friends wouldn’t venture near enough to save you.
Finally he caught Principal Winston Vogler’s eye. The elderly man was too softhearted to resist a plea for help. Kieran felt a little guilty as Winston came over, smiling politely at Linda. But only a little.
“Hey there, Ms. Tremel. Howdy, Coach.” Principal Vogler patted Kieran on the back and gave Linda a kiss on the cheek. “It’s a terrific day for the Send-off, don’t you think? The weather always cooperates with Heyday High.”
Linda opened another button. Winston was almost seventy years old—he’d been a contemporary of Kieran’s father—but he was a male, and that apparently was Linda’s only requirement.
“Well,” she drawled, borrowing Kieran’s Gatorade and rubbing its cool plastic sides against her collarbone, “it’s pretty hot.”
Kieran couldn’t help cringing for her. She hadn’t been like this before Austin Tremel divorced her last year. Back when she had first landed Austin, the rich boy from the right side of the tracks who was supposed to make all her dreams come true, she had spent every moment trying to be worthy of him. Trying to remake herself into the perfect lawyer’s wife.
It must have hurt pretty bad when he dumped her. She’d spent the past year trying to prove to herself that she was desirable. Austin had a new lover—had probably acquired her long before the divorce—so Linda obviously wasn’t going to be happy until she had one, as well. Or two, or three. However many it took to show Austin she didn’t miss him.
Winston was watching the three-legged zebra race, which involved bags painted with black and white stripes. “Do you think,” he asked suddenly, “that any of these kids even know why they’re called the Fighting Zebras at Heyday High?”
“Heck, no,” Linda said.
Kieran knew that was probably true. Many of Heyday’s younger citizens had no idea that the city got its name because a trainer for a little nomadic circus got drunk one night and left the animal cages unlocked.
