The Seduction of Goody Two-Shoes

Chapter 6

“Hi, Mom, it’s me.”

“Ellie!” Lucy sat bolt upright under her afghan, gesturing frantically at Mike, who had already hit Save on his computer and was making his way over to join her on the couch. She shifted her feet around to make room for him beside her. “Honey, I’m so glad you called.” Your dad and I have been worried about you. But of course she didn’t say that; she knew Ellie didn’t like to be fussed over. Consequently Lucy made sure her tone was casual when she added, “We’ve been wondering about that…thing you mentioned you had to do. How’d that come out?”

“Well, that’s mostly why I’m calling. I think it’s going to work out fine, Mom, so you and Dad don’t have to worry, okay?” There was a pause, which Lucy wisely didn’t interrupt. Then a small, decisive breath. “The problem was, my partner on this…project I’m working on, he’d gotten sick, and it looked like I was going to have to finish it up by myself. But as it turns out, I’ve found somebody to help me out. So I won’t be going it alone after all.”

“Well,” said Lucy, “that’s nice.” She waited, watching her husband’s eyes, then cautiously ventured, “This new partner-is it someone you know?” Darn, but it was hard, being the mother of independent grown-up children. Hard to know which questions she was allowed to ask and which ones would be considered prying. Hard to know how much concern she was allowed to show without being a buttinsky. She looked at Mike for support once more before adding bravely, “Someone you can trust?”

There was another pause, and then an oddly thoughtful, “Yes, Mom, I believe I can.”

But, thought Lucy, she didn’t answer the first question.

“Anyway, Mom, Dad, I just wanted to let you know I’m going to be leaving the ship, so I probably won’t be able to check in with you for a few days. Okay? Everything’s fine, so don’t worry about me. I’m going to be staying with…my partner, and he doesn’t have a phone-”

He, thought Lucy. She said, He. At least that was something.

“This partner,” Mike said loudly, leaning closer to Lucy and the receiver, “does he have a name?” He gave his wife a smug look, well aware that fathers were allowed more slack in the prying department than mothers.

Even so, this time the pause was so long that Lucy finally said, “Honey, did you-”

“Yeah, Mom, I heard. It’s…McCall.”

“McCall,” said Lucy. “Is that-”

“Listen, Mom, I have to go now, okay? Tell Dad I love him-love you both. And don’t worry. I promise I’ll keep my wits about me.”

Lucy could hear a smile in her daughter’s voice when she said that. She wished she felt like smiling herself, but she had an edgy, uncertain feeling as she pushed the cordless phone’s disconnect button…kind of a tingle between her shoulder blades. Still holding the phone in her lap, she said to her husband, “She said his name’s-”

“McCall,” said Mike. “I heard.” He tapped a fingertip against his lips. “I knew a McCall once.”

“Oh, surely not the same one,” said Lucy, in an “Oh, pshaw” sort of tone. “McCall’s not that uncommon a name.”

“She didn’t mention a first name, did she? Unless McCall-”

“I’m sure that would be the last name-can you imagine anybody naming a little baby McCall?”

“McCall…” Mike Lanagan said under his breath. “I wonder…” He was frowning thoughtfully as he went back to his computer.

McCall lay awake listening to the small sounds that marked Ink’s progress on her usual nightly rounds, thinking about the woman currently occupying his not-very-comfortable couch.

He’d offered her his bed, of course; he wasn’t a complete jerk. He’d apologized for not having a hammock-one Yucatan custom he’d never quite taken to-and told her how lumpy the couch’s cushions were, how they had a tendency to separate, allowing various body parts to fall through onto the rattan underpinnings.

She’d told him again about how she’d slept on the decks of ships, on bare ground and open beaches, on sidewalks and the steps of government buildings. A couch with actual cushions, she’d assured him, would be a luxury.

He’d have to leave his bedroom door open a few inches to allow Ink hunting access, he’d told her, adding a sly remark about how it might be a bit of an inconvenience, but it kept the lizard and scorpion population down. But instead of a horrified “Eeuw!” or a shudder or a change of heart about sleeping on the couch, all she’d done was smile and tell him she’d slept through worse.

So it wasn’t as though he hadn’t tried. And it wasn’t guilt that kept him wide awake and tense long past the time when he’d normally be deep in untroubled, unhassled, live-and-let-live sleep. Awake, and all his senses keyed to the slightest sound or movement from beyond his half-open bedroom door.

Dammit, the woman just didn’t add up. She didn’t fit. Miss Goody Two-Shoes from Iowa, raised on a farm, now grown up and married and owner of a pet shop in Portland, Oregon. Disapproves of smoking, scarfs chocolate when upset; discomfitted by a topless beach but doesn’t hesitate to dispatch a mugger with a swift kick to the cojones. Says she’s slept on boats, beaches and sidewalks, isn’t put off by lizards and scorpions, and knows the scientific name for a kinkajou.

None of which seemed to McCall to fit with the kind of woman who’d do business with thugs and smugglers in dangerous backstreet bars. At least not for the sake of the money involved.

Unless her husband had gotten her into this. He supposed that might make sense; he’d heard there were women out there who’d do anything for the men they loved. Never met one in his lifetime, but…hey, who knew?

But-that was another thing-what about that blush? The one that showed up every time she mentioned that absent husband of hers. What the hell was that all about?

He stirred angrily-then froze as he heard rustlings from the other room. The creak of rattan. His houseguest was restless, too, it seemed. He wondered if she could be lying awake as he was, staring wide-eyed into the shadows and wondering about him.

Just for a moment-though it might have been his imagination-he caught a whiff of her orange-blossom scent, carrying him back once again to a distant past, and the sweet, sad ache that always came over him when he thought about his beginnings…his boyhood…his parents. From across the room the photograph on the dresser was only a faint rectangular edge in the darkness, but he could see his mom’s and dad’s faces in his mind, looking, as always, not out at him but toward each other. It was the way he remembered them-high-school sweethearts, lovers first, parents only a distant second to that.

McCall knew he’d come a long way from Bakersfield, California, in more ways than one. Why was it, looking back at times like this, he always got the feeling he’d missed a turn somewhere along the way?

Damnation, he needed to sleep; he had what looked to be a long and uncertain day ahead of him. What he needed was a cigarette-that would help. Yeah…and a shot or two of tequila. But…since he had a guest in his living room and a hard and fast rule against smoking in bed, he got up as quietly as he knew how, pushed the window open and, cigarettes and lighter in hand, stepped onto the veranda.

Far down at the other end of the veranda, Ellie heard the window creak open on its hinges. When she saw the shadowy form emerge she tensed instinctively and flattened herself against the wall. A dumb thing to do, she immediately realized. Even without a moon she’d be plainly visible against the white wall, if he chose to look this way.

If he didn’t hear her first. Counting her thudding heartbeats and trying not to breathe, she watched a lighter flare…a tiny bud, blossoming into a wider glow that included cupped hands…a face…deeply hooded eyes. There was a click, and the face slipped once more into shadow. She heard an exhalation…a soft, grateful sigh.

I have to let him know I’m here, Ellie thought. Oh lord… But better now than later.

Summoning her courage, she pushed herself away from the wall. “Don’t freak out. Just wanted to let you know you weren’t alone.”

Other than a little grunt of surprise, he said nothing. She watched the glowing end of his cigarette arc upward, flare briefly, then wink out. Cupped in his hand, perhaps, or obscured by his body.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she explained, her voice gruff with nervousness. “Thought maybe some fresh air would help.”

He cleared his throat, but when he spoke his voice was as gravelly as hers. “Told you that couch wasn’t comfortable.”

“No, no-it wasn’t that.” She smiled, even though he wouldn’t see it. “Or Inky, either. I think maybe I’m just a little nervous-about tomorrow.” That was true enough, but only partly. The other reasons for her sleeplessness she didn’t want to think about or examine too closely.

She moved away from the wall, inhaling deeply as she looked out over dark rooftops and darker water toward a horizon that was fading to milky gray. “It’s nice out here, though. I think there’s going to be a moon. Not full though-not for a few more days.”

Again the cigarette’s tiny yellow eye winked at her, and again he said nothing. Finally, she let the breath out in a rush and leaned against the base of an arch, her back to the view. “This is awkward for you, isn’t it? Having me here.” She waited, and when he still didn’t respond, added dryly, “I take it you don’t have too many visitors.” At least, not like me…not the kind of visitor that sleeps on the couch.

There was the faint hiss of an exhalation, and then a grudging, “Not many.”

Okay, Ellie thought, he just stepped out for a smoke and doesn’t feel like talking. I can handle that. Don’t take it personally. It isn’t like the man’s a scintillating conversationalist at the best of times.

But the silence was like a tender tooth she couldn’t stop herself from probing.

“Seems funny,” she remarked after a moment. “It’s your house, and you have to come outside for a cigarette?”

This time the winking yellow eye was accompanied by a grunt that may have been amusement. “Not generally.” His voice was raspy in the darkness. “Just don’t smoke in bed, is all. Habit I picked up a long time ago, when I was…”

“Married?” Ellie ventured when he left it unfinished. Then, momentarily emboldened by his soft affirming chuckle, she got as far as, “How did-” before stopping herself with a hand clapped across her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbled, more resentful than contrite. “Forgot myself there for a minute.”

She listened to the night’s sounds…the rustle of breezes in tropical foliage, the far-off barking of a dog. The faint sound of a throat being cleared. She pushed abruptly away from the arch and let out her breath in an exasperated rush. “Dammit, McCall. I don’t think I’m a nosy person. Really. I mean, it’s normal for strangers forced together by circumstances to ask each other questions. It’s not prying, it’s…it’s just trying to find a common ground. Like, ‘What do you do for a living? Where are you from? Are you married? Have any kids? Read any good books lately?’ Then you go from there. Maybe you find out you don’t have anything in common with this person and you never want to see them again as long as you live. Or, maybe you hit it off and you’ve made a new friend. How are you ever going to know if you don’t talk?”

There was a long pause. Then, just as Ellie was uttering a whimper of pure frustration, the raspy voice came again. “Maybe I just like to maintain an air of mystery.” Definitely amused.

Ellie’s frustration morphed into a kind of cautious joy. A little frisson of excitement shivered through her, finding its way into her voice. “You mean, like Batman?”

The cigarette’s ember arced away into the night, exploding in a tiny shower of sparks as it made contact with the ground. “Batman?” The chuckle seemed easier this time, though loaded with irony. “A superhero? Not hardly.”

“Hey, if you don’t want me to know the real story, you could always make something up,” Ellie suggested. “Then, I’ll tell you something back-”

“Make up something, you mean?”

“Maybe. Who knows?”

“So we stand here and tell each other lies.”

“At least we’d be speaking.” But she felt breathless, suddenly, and not from laughter. And a peculiar shaking deep inside. Did he know? Could he read her so easily? Liar liar, pants on fire…

For a moment there while they’d been talking she’d begun to move closer to him, as if words were an invisible line pulling them together in the alienating darkness. Now she saw the space between them as a zone of safety and shrank back into it, the darkness an ally, protection for her own lies. Necessary lies, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she had any choice.

“For instance,” she went on, but too quickly, her voice too light and too glib, “you could tell me how you and your wife were childhood sweethearts, and she died tragically when she fell overboard on your honeymoon cruise, and that’s why you don’t have any children, and ever since-”

“Nothing so romantic, I’m afraid,” he interrupted dryly. “My wife and I met in college. We’re divorced. Not having kids was a mutual decision-a wise one, as it turned out.”

“Ah,” said Ellie. A dozen new questions were buzzing around in her brain. College? You went to college? Where? How long were you married? Why didn’t you want kids? Was it the divorce that brought you here? Then she remembered. “Is that the true story?” she asked suspiciously. “Or did you make it up?”

“Ah, but that’s the question, isn’t it?” His chuckle was soft and dry as the wind in the bird-of-paradise. “That’s the trouble with lies-after the first one, you can’t ever know what to believe.”

Now it was Ellie who had nothing to say. And suddenly, inexplicably, there were tears welling up in her eyes-where had they come from? Rose Ellen Lanagan was not and never had been a crybaby! But she’d never felt this overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness, either-an intense longing for something she couldn’t even put a name to, but which she knew for certain did not involve lies.

“Your turn,” McCall said softly.

“I beg your pardon?” Ellie mumbled. Had he asked her a question? She’d no idea what.

“Your husband. You told me his name-my name now, I suppose-is Ken.”

“Right,” said Ellie, trying surreptitiously to stop her nose from running without resorting to a telltale sniff. “Ken Burnside.”

“And that the two of you own a pet shop in Portland, Oregon.” There was a pause. “So…if you grew up on a farm in Iowa, how did you two meet?”

“At a ‘Save the Whales’ rally,” Ellie returned instantly-defiantly. Well, it could have been true, dammit!

She heard him mutter, laughing, under his breath. Something that sounded like “Goody Two-Shoes,” and then, “Figures…”

Goody Two-Shoes? Why did he always say that? She sucked in a breath, feeling vaguely insulted and gravely misunderstood. But after holding the breath for a half-dozen or so pulse-pounding beats, she let it out without a sound. What did it matter what he thought of her? The man obviously had no interest in knowing who she really was-even if she’d been free to tell him. She’d bent over backward to be friendly, and he didn’t seem to want to meet her even halfway-which was particularly hard for her to swallow, since she’d always been the kind of person who made friends easily wherever she went. People just naturally liked Ellie Lanagan. Most people. Apparently not this person. Was that why it bothered her so much? Some perversity in her nature, some contrary streak that caused her to be attracted to the one person seemingly immune to her charms?

There. I said it: I am attracted to him. I’m fiercely attracted to a scruffy and somewhat mysterious beach-bum-slash-artist-slash-social-dropout I know only as McCall.

It was almost a relief to admit it. She felt better immediately, though perhaps a little shaky-rather as if she’d finally pulled out a painfully inflamed splinter.

That’s all it is, she thought. Just an attraction. I’ve had them before, though probably never one as dumb as this. Now I can laugh at myself and put it aside. Concentrate on the job ahead of me. Keep my wits about me. Now I can sleep.

“Well,” she said abruptly, “I believe I’ll give that couch another try. Good night, McCall.”

She heard a click, a faint hiss and crackle, and then a soft and ironic, “Good night…Mrs. Burnside.”

After she’d gone back inside, McCall sat for a long time on his bedroom windowsill, smoking and watching the moon rise out of Tropical Storm Paulette’s cloudy veil, contemplating the nature of lust and sin. And, like most people confronted with their own guilt, trying as hard as he could to rationalize it.

Well, hell, he told himself, how was he supposed to remember she was a married woman when she kept forgetting to act like one? Not that she’d openly flirted with him, or done anything overtly improper-besides kissing him, of course, and there’d been extenuating circumstances for that. No, it wasn’t so much what she’d done, as what she didn’t do. She didn’t talk about her husband, for one thing. Every married woman he’d ever met, happy or unhappy, it seemed like they couldn’t seem to get a complete sentence out without mentioning hubby one way or another. It was, “my husband says this,” or “my husband does that.” This woman almost never brought up her husband’s name, unless McCall did so first, and when he did, she’d blush. And that was another thing. It was true that, in McCall’s experience at least, women in love generally tended to light up when speaking of their beloved. But with sort of a happy glow, not going all flustered like this woman did, as if she were embarrassed by even the suggestion of such intimacy.

No, he thought, there was definitely something not quite right with the Burnsides.

Not that it was any of McCall’s business. Happy or unhappy, right or not right, he didn’t get involved with married women. End of story.

Which brought him back to his internal debate on the nature of lust and of sin. For various reasons, McCall wasn’t big on religion, but he did believe wholeheartedly in the concept of sin. Hey, there was right, and there was wrong, no getting around that. And no matter how hard a man might try to get around it, in his heart he mostly always knew the difference. Which was why, at the moment, he was having a little argument with himself over whether lusting after a married woman in his heart was actually a sin. Oh, sure, according to the gospel and Jimmy Carter, thinking was supposed to be the same as doing, but given the nature of human beings, McCall was pretty sure there’d be quite a bit of slack involved there. He figured a man was in the clear as long as he didn’t do anything about his thoughts. Okay, there was that commandment-he couldn’t remember which number-the one about not coveting thy neighbor’s wife. But he felt certain he was okay on that score, too, because the way he understood it, covet meant wanting to have for himself, and the last thing McCall wanted was to have any woman for himself-married or otherwise.

For the past seven years he’d been careful to keep his liaisons with women uncomplicated and hassle-free- “safe sex” being a concept he took very seriously, in more ways than one. And if there was anything he was certain of right now it was that this woman-whether she went by Ellie Lanagan, Mrs. Ken Burnside or Cinnamon, as she would always be to McCall-could complicate his life in ways he hadn’t even thought of yet.

He tossed away his cigarette, but instead of reaching immediately for another, sat very still for a while, listening to the sounds of the night: the singing of insects and of frogs, wind rustling through palm trees, the disconcerting crunching noises Inky was making somewhere in the dark bedroom behind him. The small voice inside him that kept saying, Fool, she’s already complicated your life, don’t you know that?

Oh, yeah. Forget about the perky little breasts, smooth, tan legs, cinnamon freckles, ratchety voice and killer smile. There was still the small fact that, as of this moment, he was guilty of aiding and abetting her in the commission of a felony. What was he going to do about that?

He had until tomorrow to think of something.

From the crossroads town of Tulum, the highway left the coast and angled abruptly inland. Ellie, who’d been dividing her attention between the view from the VW’s windows and the map spread across her lap, rubbernecked so avidly when they passed the marked turnoffs to the Mayan ruins at Coba on the right, and the Punta Allen peninsula on the left, that McCall asked her about it.

“Oh, nothing,” she said, but with a wistful sigh. “I was just wishing-”

“Say the word,” he said roughly. “If you want to change your mind about going through with this-”

“No, no-I’d just like to see the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve someday, that’s all.”

McCall gave her a quick, hard look. “Not the ruins? That’s where most tourists wind up-unless you’re into reef diving.”

Ellie shrugged. “I’m not much into ruins. It’s the wildlife that interests me-you know, the birds, the animals.”

“Ah,” said McCall. “Of course.” From Ellie’s angle his smile looked wry, and without much humor.

“Well, have you ever been there?”

He threw her a glance. “To the Reserve? Nah-been down the peninsula, though, many times. Diving.”

“What’s it like?”

He gave her the same crooked smile, but it seemed easier, now. She could see the creases at the corner of his eye. “It’s a great place to go if you want to get away from the world. And don’t mind a few inconveniences.”

“Well,” said Ellie dryly, “I can see why you’d love it.” And she was pleased beyond proportion when he laughed.

It didn’t take much encouragement, then, for him to tell her about his travels on the peninsula, and his adventures diving the reefs along the coast there. She listened to him talk, shivering with a strange happiness, marveling at how articulate he was, how comfortable with himself and with words when the subject wasn’t his personal or past life. Questions rushed into her mind like an unexpected gust of wind, leaving her breathless, unsettled, off-balance.

What must he have been in his former life-a lawyer? Teacher? Used-car salesman? CEO? He was good with people, once. He had a wife. Money, too-he said so. What could have happened, to make him give it all up? What was it that brought him here?

For once, wisely, she kept her curiosity to herself, and instead opened her mind and allowed it to wander through the worries and uncertainty she’d been ruthlessly trying-without much luck-to squelch.

Who is this man? Can I really trust him? Just because he has kind eyes, and a kinkajou… Am I out of my mind to be doing this?

At the time, of course, back there in that cantina, she’d felt as though she’d had no choice. She’d been scared, at a loss, and he’d walked in. And later, it had seemed unthinkable to let it all fall through, with the money paid, the arrangements in place…all the months of preparation…to let it all be for nothing. Now…oh, it seemed so clear to her now…she knew that what she should have done was inform General Reyes and let him break the news to the USFWS and let them figure out what to do about it.

She could still do that. It wasn’t too late. I can call the whole thing off.

“You want to call it off?” McCall’s voice rasped across her raw nerves.

She jumped and answered reflexively, “No! I don’t want to call it off.” She saw now that the VW had slowed almost to a crawl, and that he was staring at her, eyes the sharp, cold blue of the October skies back home in Iowa. She felt her stomach fill up with queasiness and butterflies.

“You still can, you know.” And he was himself again, at least the McCall she knew-crusty, crude and cantankerous. “Give up this crazy idea. Go on back home-to Portland or Iowa, what-the-hell-ever. Forget about the damn money-it’s only money, for God’s sake!”

“I can’t call it off. I told you-my husband-”

His fingers flexed on the steering wheel, as if what he really wanted to do was break it in half. “You sure your husband would want you doing this? Going into a Mexican jungle to meet up with armed criminals? They are armed, you know-I hope you noticed that. Does he even know-do you know-how dangerous this is? Jeez, what kind of man lets his wife-”

“He trusts me,” Ellie said tightly. “He knows I can handle it.”

“But you can’t handle it, can you?” His voice was suddenly very soft…gentle, almost. “Not alone. Not without me.”

She went utterly still, staring at him. His face looked set, hard as stone. “You promised-” Her lips felt stiff; she licked them and finished hoarsely, “You gave me your word.”

“Yeah…I know.” He said that on an exhalation as he shifted gears. The VW’s engine sputtered and slowly picked up speed.

She waited, nerves strung tight as wire, with a high-tension pulsing inside her head: You promised. You gave me your word. You promised…

It seemed a long time before he spoke again. “We should be coming close to Felipe Carillo. We’ll stop there-fill up the tanks. It’s the last chance for gas, unless we want to detour to Chetumal.” He said that in a disconcertingly normal voice, as if the tense little exchange had never happened. But Ellie had a sense of a crossroads passed…a moment of truth come and gone. Decisions made. Things settled.

It’s going to be all right, she told herself, relaxing a little. Maybe he really is a man of honor.

In any case, for better or worse, she felt certain he wouldn’t try again to talk her out of doing what she had to do.

McCall considered himself a man of his word. He’d promised a crazy woman he’d accompany her into a Yucatan jungle and pose as her husband in a meeting with armed smugglers, and if she insisted on going through with it, by God, he’d be right there with her, keeping his word. That didn’t mean he couldn’t try every way he knew of to keep her from going through with it. Backed up against a wall, all reasonable appeals having failed, he’d come up with a plan. A brilliant plan it was, too, in his opinion; devious but simple. Practically foolproof.

It was late morning when they reached the bustling jungle crossroads town of Felipe Carillo Puerto. It was too early for a full midday meal, but since McCall knew it was going to be a good long way to the next decent restaurant, he suggested they stop for a botana-Mexican for a light snack-of garnachas, which was basically fried masa patties topped with pork and chicken, onions, tomatoes and avocados. After that, on the way out of town they stopped at a gas station where a big hand-lettered sign reminded travelers: Ultimo Gas. While Ellie bought bottled water from a vending machine, McCall topped off the VW’s tanks and to make it look good, checked the oil, hoses and tire pressure.

He was hunkered down and peering into the engine in a businesslike way when Ellie came up to him, holding out a bottle of cold water. He saw her, of course; felt her in his bones, muscles, nerves…in the very pit of his stomach. But he didn’t acknowledge her presence until she said, “Are you sure this car can make it all the way to Chetumal?”

He gave an exaggerated wince. “Ssh-she’ll hear you.” He slammed the engine cover and straightened up, smiling at her as he tipped back the brim of his hat and took the bottle she offered. He was feeling amazingly good-humored.

Which seemed to befuddle her, for some reason. She gave her head a quick little shake, and in that abrupt, scratchy way of hers said, “No, no-I was just thinking-no gas also means no garages. This car’s probably about a hundred and ten in human years. What happens if we break down?”

McCall cracked the cap, twisted it open and took a long drink. “No problemo,” he said with an airy wave toward the Beetle’s front end. “That’s why I carry my tools with me wherever I go.”

“Tools!” She gave him a sharp, startled look across the car’s rounded roof. “Don’t tell me you’re a mechanic.” Her gaze lingered…puzzled…quizzical, and he suddenly wished he could have read her mind just then. But the only thing he saw in those golden eyes of hers that he could be certain of was surprise.

“Not me,” he said as he opened his door and got in. She did the same, and he handed her his water bottle to hold while he fired up the VW’s engine and shifted gears. “My dad was, though. I worked for him weekends and summers all through high school, so anything around the mid 1970s or earlier I’m pretty comfortable with. These modern cars, though-all the electronics, computer-controlled everything-forget it. That’s one reason I drive the Beetle. At least I know if anything goes wrong I can probably fix it.”

He heard a faint sound, quickly stifled. He glanced at Ellie and found her gazing at him, lips parted, eyes glowing with frustrated curiosity. Smiling to himself-hell, he was in a mood to be generous-he waited until he’d got them back on the highway and headed south once again before he went on in a conversational tone, “I’d have probably been a mechanic, too-I liked it well enough-but my parents had their hearts set on sending me off to college. I was their only child, you see, and they had big plans for me.” He didn’t tell her what he’d always suspected, which was that his parents’ real reason for wanting him gone had been because they’d wanted their own lives and privacy back. Or how hard it had been, sometimes, feeling like the fifth wheel, the unwanted third party tagging along on someone else’s date.

“Where did you go?” Her voice was breathless and brave. “To college, I mean.”

“Harvard.” He punched it at her and waited for her reaction.

“Harvard!”

And he laughed, because, as he’d known it would be, it was so clearly the last thing she’d expected. “Not bad, on a mechanic’s income, huh?” But when he glanced at her, the look on her face seemed more gratified than surprised.

“You’re not-you weren’t-a lawyer, were you?”

He smiled, but irony and memory were crowding in on him again, constricting his heart and making the smile feel strained and wry. “Nope,” he said, still trying to keep it light and low-key. “Business. MBA.”

“Your parents…your dad-they must have been very proud.” Her tone was pensive, only slightly ironic, and her face was turned away, toward the window. But McCall could hear the thought as clearly as if she’d spoken it. What must they think of you now?

“I imagine they would have been,” he said with gentle defiance. “Unfortunately they died in a car accident my junior year-” he continued relentlessly over her gasp of dismay and whispered “I’m sorry…” “-coming home from the beach on a Sunday evening. Somebody in a hurry tried to pass on a two-lane stretch of highway and hit them head-on. Matter of fact, it happened not far from the spot where James Dean died…”