From the Start (37 page)

“I’m sensing a
but
.”

“I wasn’t going to bring this up tonight, but since you mentioned it . . .” He reached toward the computer and paused the movie. “I’m having second thoughts about the book, Kate.”

Confusion scratched through her. “Well, I’m only seven chapters along. There’s plenty of time to change it.”

He pulled his arm away from her shoulder. “No, not your draft. I mean the whole thing. It’s hit me over the past couple days—I don’t know that I actually want to do it. I’m thinking about calling the publisher, seeing what would happen if I broke the contract.”

She tried to move away from him, but the size of the makeshift couch made it impossible. So she slid onto the floor instead. “I don’t understand. All these weeks of work—”

“I know, I know. But it’s like . . . like God called an audible in my life. I’m realizing I don’t have to stick to the old play. And sure, I worried if I brought this up you’d feel like I wasted a month’s worth of your time. But it wasn’t wasted time, not if it led here. To us.”

“Yeah, but . . .” But how to tell him it wasn’t just the time? It was the fact that she’d pinned her hopes for the future on this
book—on the financial security it meant, at least for a time. “You can’t just drop it.”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “I don’t need it.”

She jumped to her feet. “Well, I do.” Her words came out harsher than she intended. But without a draft to turn in there wouldn’t be any check from his publisher, which meant there wouldn’t be any trip to Africa.

And she
had
to go on that trip. She might be reconsidering the rest of her life post-Africa. Might have played around in her mind with the idea of coming back home or trying her hand at another book or most appealing hope of all, finding a future with Colton.

But she couldn’t do any of that without going to Africa first. Finally—
finally—
keeping her promise to Mom that she’d go, do, write something important.

Now, in one flippant thought, Colton could delete that opportunity from existence.

He rose now, slowly, wincing—from pain in his knee and shoulder or from her reaction? “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you, Rosie.”

“Kate.”
Don’t do this, Kate. Don’t push him
away. He doesn’t realize . . .

But it was his turn to stiffen. “Kate.” There was a hard edge to his tone now. “At the end of the day, it’s my story to tell, and it has to be up to me whether to tell it. I can’t go through with it just so you can have your name on the cover of a bestseller.”

That’s what he thought this was about?

Hurt turned her away even as he seemed to sense the error in what he’d said.

“Kate—”

“Let’s just finish the movie.”

This wasn’t how the night was supposed to end. Taut silence with only the huff of the car’s heater for background noise.

Kate had hardly said a word the rest of the evening. Why they’d even bothered finishing the movie, he didn’t know. Chances were Kate had heard as little of its final minutes as he had. They’d cleaned everything up while the credits rolled, the air squeezing out of the blown-up couch a frustratingly obvious metaphor for this date—from inflated and comfortable to flat and pointless.

Beside him, Kate ran both hands over her bare arms. Why hadn’t she put her jean jacket back on?

“Cold?”

Only a wordless nod and he upped the heat a notch.
Can’t take this anymore.
“I’m sorry I brought up the book, Kate.”

Her hands dropped to her lap. “If you were thinking of backing out, you had to bring it up sometime. Might as well have been tonight.”

Her barren tone stung. “Can’t you at least try to understand where I’m coming from?”

When she didn’t reply, he slung the wheel to the left.

“This isn’t the way to Megan’s.”

“We’re not going to Megan’s. Not yet.” He turned onto the road he knew led to the west edge of town—away from Megan’s, the river, the lights of Maple Valley. “I’m not doing this—I’m not going to let you clam up and ruin what I think could be something great.”

“
I’m
ruining it?”

There, finally. Maybe only three words, but at least she was engaging. “Yeah, you are. You’re turning back into the Kate you were when you first came home—Chicago Kate, all reserved and closed off and—”

“I can’t believe
you’re
calling
me
closed off. And you ever
think maybe that’s just who I am? That Chicago Kate, whatever that means, is the real me?”

Pavement dissolved into gravel. “No, the real Kate gets into water fights in the bathroom and brags about her arcade basketball skills and climbs up corncribs.”

“And ends up with a nail in her foot. Great fun.”

Town lights faded in his rearview mirror, replaced by dark and shadows, only a sliver of moonlight slanting in. “It was fun. You were the star of the ER that night, cracking jokes and smiling your way through a tetanus shot.”

Tracks of metal and wood sliced into the harvest-stripped field outside his window, the distant sound of a train’s horn as it cut through town behind them drifting in.

“It was fun,” Kate finally said. He felt her eyes on him as she exhaled. “And tonight was fun. It really was, Colt. You must’ve put so much work into it.”

The train’s honking drew closer.

“I don’t think I ever explained to you my full situation . . . why I agreed to do the book. I was counting on the advance.”

The admission softened the tension between them as realization settled in. “I knew you needed money for your trip, but . . .” Eight years of NFL paychecks, even without his being one of the multi-million-dollar players, meant he didn’t often think in terms of what he could and couldn’t afford.

Which meant he hadn’t even considered the financial impact of hanging up the book contract. No wonder Kate had bristled.

Regret punched through him as the noise of the train’s approach clamored in. “Kate, I didn’t even think—”

Brash headlights flashed in his rearview mirror, and something heavy tightened inside him.
Weird . . . just like . . .

The jolt lanced into him without warning. Razor-sharp and impossible to turn back from.

In less time than it took to slam on the brakes, the flashback yanked him in.

Only this time it didn’t let him go.

He felt his breath quickening, heard Kate’s faint voice saying his name, even as grainy images started forming.

It was dark and it was late.

And he was nine. He sat in the back of Dad’s station wagon, arms crossed and ache swelling like a flood inside him. Anger and embarrassment.

“Colton, are you listening?”

Kate?

No, Mom. She was up in the front of the car with Dad. All three of them, riding away from the church like a happy little trio. Only Colton knew the truth.
We’re
that
family.

The ones who dressed in thrift-shop clothes and never took vacations. The ones who cleaned churches and office buildings three evenings a week just so they could make ends meet whenever Dad was laid off.

“I told you we should’ve gotten a babysitter, Joan.”

“What’s the point of picking up a few hours cleaning if we have to pay a babysitter while we’re gone? Defeats the purpose.”

Dad stared him down from the rearview mirror until Colton turned away, eyes on the trees lining the roads, streaked with sunset’s orange. Dad flew down the gravel road as if it were a highway.

“Well, he’s nine. He’s old enough to stay by himself then.”

“Not in our neighborhood. You know that.”

If only he hadn’t wandered onto the stage in that stupid church. But there’d been a lady playing piano, and when she’d spotted him, head poking out between a pew halfway back, she’d beckoned him forward. Asked him if he liked to sing. Handed him a microphone.

And for half an hour, he’d forgotten that he hadn’t had dinner
yet. That he’d been teased once again at school for how short his jeans were. That Mom and Dad had forgotten to come to his fourth-grade concert that afternoon.

The lady at the front of the church sang with him and laughed with him. Let him pretend to be a rock star. Pulled a camera from her purse and snapped some photos, flash cutting into the unlit sanctuary.

“Smile for the camera, Colton.”

When she heard his stomach growl, she gave him a conspiratorial wink and took him to a room with a bunch of toys. She pulled a box of animal crackers from a cupboard and a juice box from a shelf.

Then he’d gone and spilled the juice. And that’s when Dad had found him.

At least he’d waited to yell until they were in the car.

“Who knows what that woman thinks of us now. She’s the pastor’s wife, you know. We could get fired.”

Colton saw Mom roll her eyes in her mirror. “We’re not going to get fired because Colton spilled juice. It was in the nursery, for Pete’s sake.”

Colton’s stomach churned for what felt like the hundredth time. He hugged his arms tighter to his body. A rock hit the window from the gravel underneath the station wagon’s tires.

“Slow down, Alan. The last thing we need is a car accident. Especially now that we’re down to one car.”

“And why was she giving him food anyway? We’re not destitute.”

She was just being nice, Dad.

“That’s just what we need. A busybody pastor’s wife thinking we’re a charity case.”

“If the factory doesn’t take you back soon, that’s exactly what we’ll be.”

Dad slapped the steering wheel.

“The unemployment check, the cleaning, my hours at the hospital. They’re not cutting it. We’ve got to figure something out.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“I called the office . . . about food stamps.”

No, Mom . . .

“How many times—”

“Don’t start with me, Alan. Don’t even—”

“Stop fighting.” The words exploded from him before he could stop them, loud and angry and accented by his head hitting the back of his seat. “Stop it. You always fight. That’s all you do. You don’t take care of me like other parents do. You don’t give me supper ’til it’s dark.” He felt like he might burst with the feelings knotting through him.

Sometime during his tirade, Dad had slowed to a stop, right in the middle of the road. And when the last word pushed past his lips, his father turned. Stone-faced, steely-eyed. “Get out.”

“What?” The question was barely a peep.

“Alan.”

“We’re less than a mile from home. He can walk the rest of the way.”

“You are not making him get out of this car. If you do I’m getting out with him.”

Dad ignored Mom. “You know the way. Follow the road, over the railroad tracks, then up the alley to the apartment building.”

When Colton didn’t move, Dad shifted in his seat, stretching one arm behind him to open Colton’s door. “Go. Now.”

He glanced at Mom once more, waited for another argument. Mom reached for her door, but the glare Dad sent her froze her solid. Finally, he unhooked his seat belt and stepped into the near-dark.

“Al—” He heard Mom try once more, but Dad yanked the
door closed before she could finish, rock and dust erupting under the tires as he sped away.

Colton just looked down at his feet. Had Dad forgotten he’d taken off his shoes because they were covered with juice? He wore only socks on his feet underneath his too-short jeans. A mosquito buzzed past his ear and landed on his arm. In his shock he didn’t even bother slapping it away.

He started walking, eyes to where the last sliver of sunlight beckoned on the horizon, refusing to look to his right or his left, where shadows floating in the trees threatened his imagination.

And then he heard it.

Honking—not a car, but a train. And the screech of wheels on metal, dragging and shrill. A crash. Unmistakable.

And he was running. And crying—the tearing of his feet and the pangs in his stomach forgotten. Because he knew . . .

The sun was gone by the time he reached the accident, sirens already sounding in the distance. Smoke and fire, someone yelling from inside the train.

And screaming, so loud it hurt his ears and pulsed in his head until he finally realized it was him. He’d sunk to the road, knees digging into the dusty ground.

“Colton!”

Someone shook his arm, but all he could feel was horror, waves of it, drowning him.

“Colton, you’re scaring me.”

More shaking, and in a moment that stretched until it broke, the flashback dissolved. His heart raced and head throbbed, but he was back in the present. With Kate looking at him as if he were a ghost.

And he was shaking, just like he had that day in the road, shock shuddering through him. When had he pulled to the side of the road?

“What happened? Was it another flashback?”

He couldn’t force wind past his vocal cords, wouldn’t have been able to find words if he could. With a jerk, he shifted the car into drive and spun around to face town.

The engine groaned. “Careful, Colt. We’re on gravel and we’re not the only ones on the road.”

He ignored her.

“Please, talk to me. Tell me what just happened.”