Healing Stones (11 page)

“I thought that only happened on TV,” Ethan said.

“This was for real.”

“So what was the guy doing?”

“Blowing their life savings on sports bets. But the point is, what if that's what's going on here?”

Ethan grunted. “I would bet
my
life savings Rich Costanas did not hire a PI to follow his wife. In the first place, according to Demi, the photographer was already there when she got there, hiding on the boat.”

“What if Estes hired him?”

“Why would he? Nobody knew what was going on between Archer and Demi.”

“You sure about that?”

Ethan broke off a strand of cheese that stretched from the wrapper. “Look, Wyatt Estes has strong ideas about how things should be done, and he definitely uses his power to get his way. That makes him an opportunist, not a stalker. I firmly believe the pictures just fell into his lap, and he saw a perfect opportunity to take me down.”

“So you think he was disappointed when your professor resigned instead of you?”

“Kevin St. Clair was. I think Wyatt Estes genuinely wants CCC to be an upstanding, morally pure educational institution, whatever that takes.”

“That's what you want too,” Sully said.

“We have different ideas about how that should be accomplished.”

“And Kevin St. Clair?”

“He wants that—and more.”

“Your job.”

“Only because he thinks he can do it better.” Ethan shook his head. “Their hearts are in the right place, which is why I don't think either one of them had anything to do with getting the pictures taken.”

Sully nodded at the folder leaning against Ethan's chair. “Is that them?”

He cleared the box-table, and Ethan pulled out a thin pile of photographs and set them on it. Sully looked at the first one and felt his eyes widen.

“Pretty incriminating.”

The man in the picture was largely hidden by the woman, his face buried in her bare neck. Sully could only see her naked shoulder and short blonde hair falling back as she welcomed him. She wasn't an Estes blonde. Hers was as real as everything else seemed to be.

Ethan slid the photo away, revealing a second. The woman now looked straight at Sully, as if he'd startled her. Her eyes were brown and soft and sad, even in the shock of the moment. Sully still couldn't see the man's face; she kept it hidden against her with her hands combed into his hair. He wouldn't have looked at him anyway. The woman held him with her pain.

“Do I need to look at any more?”

Ethan shook his head and slid them back into the folder.

Sully sat, hands folded on top of the box. “I don't think there was any force involved.”

Ethan let out a long, slow sigh. “No, I never thought that.”

“Looks like—I mean, what can you tell from a picture—but I'm betting all her struggling was on the inside.” Sully shrugged. “Give her my number. Have her give me a call.”

Ethan
churned slightly in the chair. “I will, as soon as I can convince her she needs you.”

Sully envisioned the picture again and leaned forward. “Don't let her wait too long, Ethan,” he said. “She doesn't have that kind of time.”

CHAPTER TEN

D
aylight basement apartment.

I hadn't heard that term in ages. Of course, how long had it been since I'd apartment hunted?

The number of years was depressing. So was the hotel room. So was my savings account.

The one piece of advice I'd taken from my mother when I got married was to always have a little money of my own in a separate account. When she died from colon cancer in 1998, I put most of the money I inherited from the proceeds of her house and savings in there, in her honor. I felt good about that, since in life she made it so hard to honor her.

But “a little money” was an apt description now. I'd used the bulk of it to buy Rich's boat—my last big effort to bring him out of his funk —and in the preceding week I'd chiseled away a chunk of the rest of it, paying for the hotel room I couldn't sleep in, buying meals I didn't eat.

Rich hadn't called, on his own or in response to the messages I left him. I didn't leave any at the fire station. Knowing Rich, he hadn't told anyone there that we were separated, and in my current condition, my voice alone would give it away.

I went back to the classifieds, which I'd spread out on the bed. It would actually be cheaper in the long run for me to get a studio apartment. How long could the long run last, anyway? Most of the time I wasn't sure I could take it another minute. I was paralyzed at every knock on the door for fear it was a sheriff's deputy serving me with divorce papers. Rich's silence was excruciating, but it was better than a final decision. And as long as I had to hang in limbo, I might as well do it economically.

If my calculations were correct, I could go maybe two months before I had to get a job. I fought down panic. It wouldn't be two months—or even one—before Rich would take me back and we would work things out. No point thinking about work yet. If I did, I would surely go right over the edge I was teetering on.

DAYLIGHT BASEMENT APARTMENT. ONE BEDROOM. OVER-LOOKING PUGET SOUND. $700 A MONTH, UTILITIES INCLUDED. PORT ORCHARD.

I circled the phone number, but I couldn't call yet. Maybe I should try Rich again, let him know what I planned. He wouldn't let me take this step. It was too permanent, too far from anything we'd ever thought of.

But then, so was my having an affair.

I sank down into the pillows and let the tears run out of the corners of my eyes.

“I've Got Tears In My Ears (From Lyin' On My Back In My Bed While
I CryOver You).”

Rich and I had howled over that song in reruns of
Hee-Haw
, watched when we were too poor to go to the movies and were so happy to stay home in front of a fuzzy fifteen-inch screen. When Rich tried to match the country twang in dauntless Brooklynese, I howled even louder.

We did laugh together back then. I hadn't laughed since two weeks ago when I'd met Zach's eyes in mirth at a faculty meeting and stowed it away for the precious time when we would be able to share it out loud—as out loud as our relationship could ever be.

How could I have loved that so much when I had to sneak and lie to have it? How could I be so sorry for it now—and yet miss it?

I sat up sharply. I didn't have answers. I could hardly stand the questions. I would call the number and ask about the apartment. I would put one foot in front of the other—

I reached for the classifieds, but they slid off the end of the bed, revealing the editorial page beneath them. A heading read: WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT COVENANT CHRISTIAN?

Some people,
it said,
have written that the recent faculty changes at
CCC mean Vice President Kevin St. Clair is right about the way
President Ethan Kaye is running the place.

I folded the whole section over, twice, and deposited it into the wastebasket beside the bed, on a cushion of my damp, wadded-up Kleenexes. I didn't need any more opinions of me.

I scooped the classifieds off the floor and dialed the number under
Daylight basement apartment.

Sully turned the heat up in the garage office, again, and poured himself another cup of scalding coffee. The camping trailer was a bad idea. He didn't use the kerosene heater for fear of waking up—or not waking up—charbroiled, so he spent every night shivering under the two quilts he'd bought at Goodwill and half the next morning thawing out. He took a sip of coffee, winced, and opened the newspaper. He'd have to wait until his hands unfroze before he could work on Isabella.

That's what he called her. In the week he'd had her, he'd picked up a complete wiring assembly, new rotor and cap, points, plugs, thermostat, and carburetor rebuild kit. He'd barely started on the carb rebuild, but he could already hear the engine purring in his head.

He thumbed through the paper to the editorial section, which held all the action in Kitsap County. Aside from the occasional letter about the increasing absurdity of the television commercials for the Mattress Ranch & Futon Farm, everybody who took pen in hand had Covenant Christian College on their minds.

Things were heating up for Ethan, mostly because Kevin St. Clair and his faculty supporters were waving firebrands for a tightening of the rules. Sully skimmed one editorial.
Are we educating Christians
or Revisionists?
the writer wanted to know.

Another one made a list of the issues Ethan Kaye allowed discussion on in open forums—divorce, capital punishment, the extension of grace to homosexuals, intelligent design. The piece was one long gasp at the dangers of debate over things the editorialist felt should simply be handed down as edicts to students so they could get on with spreading the Good News to all the world.

“Good news?” Sully said into his coffee. “I feel like I've just been spiritually mugged.”

One last letter, tucked into a corner at the bottom of the page, chimed in with a different tune.

Some people have written that the recent faculty changes at CCC mean
Vice President Kevin St. Clair is right about the way President Ethan
Kaye is running the place. I don't think one has anything to do with the
other.

Sully set his mug down on the upended oil case.

Sure, it looks a little suspicious
.
One teacher disappearing and the other
one resigning. But couldn't it be a coincidence that at the same time Dr.
St. Clair is pumping up his campaign against President Kaye, two profs
leave? Nobody's talking about why they left. If there were a connection,
wouldn't Kevin St. Clair be blabbing it for all the world to hear? I say we
forget about the obviously messed up Drs. Costanas and Archer and focus
on keeping a fine man like Ethan Kaye where he belongs—in the presidential
office.

Holy crow. Who was this person?

Sully looked for a name, but it was signed only
“Fed-up Reader.”
Unlike most newspapers where unsigned letters didn't go into print, the quirky
Port Orchard Independent
's editorial page was one big debate in anonymity. Still, Sully thought, it would be nice to know who “Fed-up” was. He'd take him to lunch.

He reached for his cell phone to call Ethan, in case he hadn't seen he had a supporter, and the phone rang in his hand. He glanced at the ID.

“Good morning, Dr. Ghent.”

A chuckle resonated in Sully's ear. Dr. Porphyria Ghent had a voice so deep, even her subtle laugh created the vibration of wisdom.

“It's almost noon here,” she said. “The day is half over.”

Sully
closed his eyes and settled back against the rich tones. He'd always said if an anxious patient could spend one hour listening to Porphyria's voice, he wouldn't need an antidepressant.

“It's only ten here,” Sully said.

“Ah.”

She waited. Sully grinned. She was the only person in the world who cut him no slack. As honest as Ethan was, Sully could still charm him into letting things go. Porphyria was fooled by nothing.

“I'm up in Washington state,” he said.

“So that's where you landed.”

“You told me to get away and not come back until I could listen to a country music station for an hour without crying.”

“And how's that going for you?”

“I haven't found a station yet.”

He could almost hear her nodding, eyes closed. She'd be in her favorite Adirondack chair, wrapped in a blanket woven by a Seminole, watching the mist on the Smokies and simply nodding.

“Still bothers me some,” Sully said. “But I'm coming to terms. We can't save everyone. That's abundantly clear to me.”

“Is it now.”

It wasn't a question, or even a statement. It was a rebuttal.

“So what are you doing up there in God's country?”

Sully got up and moved out into the garage. “You'll be happy to know that I'm rebuilding a 1964 Chevrolet Impala.”

“That makes perfect sense. You have an anniversary coming up.”

“Yeah,” Sully said. “I know.” He ran his hand down Isabella's chassis. “I think I'll spend it rebuilding her carburetor. Fitting, don't you think?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Only a black matriarch could make such a sound. Sully sagged before it.

“I don't know if I'll make my yearly trip to Mecca,” he said. “This feels right. You remember Ethan Kaye?”

“Of course. Ah, that's who you're visiting.”

“He's going through a tough time right now—a college mess.”

“Is there any worse kind?” she said, chuckling again.

“I feel like I need to stand by him right now,” Sully said. “His wife's in Europe, and his main supporters at the college are gone, which is a whole other story—”

“Sully to the rescue?” Porphyria asked.

“More like Sully walking alongside. I'm not giving him therapy, if that's what you mean.”

“Mmm.”

She let there be a velvet silence, which Sully didn't fill—until he felt her deep gaze penetrate through the wires.

“If it's all right with you,” he said, “I'm going to play it by ear this year.”

“Oh, it's all right with me,” she said. “Long as you make sure it's all right with you.”

“You know I will,” Sully said.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said. “Mmm-hmm.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
moved into the daylight basement two days later.

Actually, “moved” is an overstatement. In thirty minutes I unpacked a pair of pajamas, the mini-toiletries I'd taken from my hotel room, and the same three outfits I'd been wearing for ten days. I kept telling myself I was only there for a short time. A very short time.