Lover's Lane (9 page)

12

THAT NIGHT AT FIVE-FIFTEEN JAKE SLOWED HIS SUV AND turned left off the highway into Seaside Village Mobile Home Park. As soon as he passed the entrance with its flaming gas tiki torches, he knew he’d entered kitsch world.

There was no grass in sight, but yard art was still plentiful. A plastic Bambi watched doe-eyed as Jake navigated a narrow lane that curved between the rows of double-wide mobile homes.

Here, mobile home was an oxymoron. Most of these had never moved. Many were fortified by additions of permanent porches and sundecks, a few even topped by observation platforms with views of the ocean. A wooden sign in the shape of an arrow pointed to a narrow, sandy trail.

Gnomes sprawled on white rock flowerbeds. Plaster squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks frolicked with tacky pink flamingos amid small evergreens and color pots overflowing with blossoms. Matching markers in front of every home displayed addresses in corroded aluminum numerals.

He kept an eye out for number forty-three and eventually spotted a ceramic burro wearing a sombrero and pulling an empty cart outside of a pea-green mobile home. The place looked as if it might have been one of the park’s originals.

Selma had told him that Carly lived right next door.

Jake pulled into a parking stall and killed the motor, then glanced around the interior of the vehicle to make certain he hadn’t left anything out that might give him away. Dark, tinted windows hid what he called his office annex. The compact SUV was perfect for surveillance but hell on gas.

He avoided meeting his own eyes in the rearview mirror and tried to convince himself that
not
telling Carly what he was really here for was perfectly justified until he was sure she wasn’t a flight risk. He wasn’t doing anything he hadn’t done before to get information he needed.

It was his duty to learn everything he could about Caroline Graham, a.k.a. Carly Nolan, if not for the Saunders, then for Rick’s memory. Besides, he hadn’t exactly lied to her. . . . He’d simply avoided the truth.

The minute he stepped out of the car, he heard the sound of the rolling surf, but it was quickly drowned out by wild hoots and hollers. A woman’s voice called out, “Bunco!” behind the closed door of the pea-soup green place right next to Carly’s.

There were no fake woodland creatures, no impish gnomes adorning the front of Carly’s mobile home. Butterflies made of crayon shavings melted between layers of waxed paper floated from a mobile hanging on the porch. He had a sudden flashback of making something like it back in grade school. The strings were tangled, causing the mobile to hang lopsided.

He paused long enough to straighten out the knot and set the butterflies free before he searched for a doorbell. No luck, so he knocked on the frame of the screen door.

Within seconds the bright fuchsia front door opened, and Jake found himself staring down into Carly’s son’s eyes. Blue eyes, blond hair neatly trimmed. The boy was slight but not overly thin. He looked healthy, well cared for.

“Hi!” A broad smile creased Christopher’s face as he stared back at Jake. Then he turned around and yelled, “Hey, Mom! It’s that guy! Mom! Hurry up, will ya?”

Christopher looked up at Jake again and shrugged. “She’ll be right here. You know how girls are.”

“Yeah.” Jake nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jake Montgomery. And yours is Christopher.”

“Yeah. I saw you at the game today.”

“I saw you hit that homer.”

“Where’d you meet my mom? At the diner?”

“The gallery. I like her paintings. I’m trying to get her to paint one for me.”

“Oh.” Chris’ smile dimmed a bit. “Is that
all
you like about her?”

Through the screen, Jake saw Carly hurry out of the narrow hallway between the open kitchen and the living room area and stop dead still. Then she crossed the room, stood behind her son and placed her hands protectively on the boy’s shoulders.

She looked tense, even a bit wary, although she was smiling. His sudden, unannounced appearance had obviously rattled her.

“I came to see if you’d like to go out to dinner with me, now that you have the night off,” he said.

She failed to smile. If anything, her concern deepened.

“Ow, Mom.” Christopher squirmed beneath her hands. “You’re squeezin’ me.”

“How do you know I have the night off?” Carly’s eyes never left his, but she released her grip on the boy. “How did you find this place? How did you know where I live?”

“Go, Mom!” Christopher bobbed from foot to foot. “I’ll stay at Mrs. Schwartz’s. It’s Bunco night anyway. They’ll need me to write down the score if they drink too much wine.”

Carly gently covered Christopher’s mouth with her hand.

“What’s
really
going on here, Jake?”

Her blunt query startled him. Jake hesitated almost a split second too long before he held out his hands and shrugged. “Selma overheard me ask you to dinner yesterday. When you bowed out because of work, she told me she’d give you the night off, so I came by to ask you out again.”

Chris wriggled out from behind his mother’s hand. “Wow. Selma
just
called a couple of minutes ago.”

Carly remained silent, still watching him somewhat guardedly.

“Listen, Carly,” Jake shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks. “Selma gave me your address. I’m sorry for showing up unannounced like this, but it was her idea. If you don’t want to go, just say so, and I’m out of here.”

“Aw, Mom.” The boy tugged on Carly’s hand.

“Chris is invited, too, of course.” Though asking her son along was an afterthought, time with them both would give him a chance to see how things really were between them. “He’d probably like to celebrate that home run.”

“Really?”
Christopher looked up at him with such open admiration that Jake decided he should have “Scum of the Earth” tattooed on his biceps when he got back home.

He met Carly’s eyes, marveled again at the stunning deep green in them. “What do you think? Are you both up for some Mexican food? I saw a little hole-in-the-wall where the canyon road hits town.”

“Tacos!” Christopher yelled.

Carly took a deep breath, slowly let it out and smiled, finally opening the screen door. “Since it appears I’m outvoted, why not?”

Christopher raised both fists and victoriously cried, “Yes!”

Jake waited in the small living area while Carly went to change and help Chris clean up. The furniture was slip-covered in plain, heavy canvas, maybe painters’ drop cloths. A distressed wooden storage chest did double duty as a coffee table. An array of magazines that appealed to women, with headline articles entitled “Flea Market Decorating” and “Get the Most for Your Shopping Dollar,” along with recipes, housekeeping and organizational hints, were neatly fanned across the trunk.

A lopsided wicker rocking chair was piled high with so many pillows in bright floral prints that it actually looked inviting.

Toys including Transformer superheroes and Matchbox race cars were tangled up with some deadly looking plastic dinosaurs in a wicker laundry basket in the corner.

From where he stood, he could see most of the small kitchen, too. The appliances were old but clean, the refrigerator covered with magnets displaying kindergarten art and good citizen awards. A closed-in back porch served as her studio. An old, faded floral sheet covered a work in progress on an easel near the wall of windows. A small side table held her paint tubes, jars of brushes, and linseed oil. There was also a long sofa at one end of the room that was draped in a bouquet of tropical print fabrics.

Aside from a television the size of a postage stamp and a portable CD/tape player on a low brick-and-board bookcase, there was nothing of any real value in the living room. Nor were there any photographs on display except for one of Christopher in his T-ball uniform.

Not one of Carly’s paintings adorned the plain, faux wood paneling.

Except for the picture of Christopher, there was nothing personal in sight. Not one item that would give any hint as to the identity of the home’s occupants. Everything but the photo could easily be left behind at a moment’s notice.

He could hear them talking down the hall, mother and son, their voices rising and falling in an easy cadence, but the words were indistinguishable.

Christopher ran back into the living room first, his hair slicked down, his cheeks glowing. Carly had him change into a clean, collared polo shirt tucked into his jeans, and he carried a hooded sweatshirt.

“We’re ready!” Chris announced.

When Carly stepped into the room, Jake sensed that she put a lot of time into trying to downplay her striking looks, perhaps attempting to make herself into a woman who wouldn’t turn a man’s head when she walked into a room, but she had failed miserably. It would be near impossible to disguise her natural, wholesome glow, the grace of her movements, the sparkle in her eyes.

Her long, pale hair gleamed around her shoulders. Glossy pink lipstick echoed the slight tint on her cheeks. She wore the same plain, silver shell earrings as last night. A black turtleneck sweater and jeans completed her outfit. He watched while she scooped up a fleece jacket from a chair near the dining table and the same backpack she’d carried at the ball diamond.

Chris bounded over to him. “How many tacos can you eat, Jake? One time I ate six of ’em.”

“Christopher . . .” Carly waited for them by the door. When she smiled over at him, Jake’s gut tightened.

She flicked the lock on the doorknob, stepped around him and flashed him an uncertain smile. When she brushed by, he inhaled the floral scent of her hair and the image of summer sunshine immediately came to him. He smiled back, and before he knew it, his hand was riding the small of her back as they walked out the door.

Carly paused and looked up over her shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him softly.

By the time they had walked down the porch steps, Jake wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

13

CASA GRANDE RESTAURANT’S ENCHILADA COMBINATION plate had been Jake’s undoing. Thoroughly stuffed, he leaned back in the banquette and wished he’d had the good sense to order a salad and an à la carte entrée as Carly had, but he knew of no better way to ease his conscience than with carbos and plenty of cheese.

Carly sat opposite him, relaxed but quiet, while Christopher slept on the booth bench beside her. She had volunteered nothing about her life before or after she moved to Twilight Cove. Jake filled the silence by telling them about the walking tour of town he’d taken earlier. Both he and Carly had listened to Christopher’s tall tales of his adventures at school.

The boy seemed bright, happy, and a well-adjusted six-year-old—squirmy, boisterous at times, pleased whenever he held their attention. His self-esteem was definitely high.

Jake watched the busboy clear the table. “I didn’t think he’d be able to eat half that much,” Jake commented.

Carly’s attention had strayed to a place only she knew. When she turned to him again, Jake found himself staring at her lips.

“He was showing off, but he has a pretty healthy appetite. I can’t imagine how much he’ll eat when he’s a teenager.” She brushed Christopher’s blond hair off his forehead, watched it fall back into place again. “Thanks for asking him along. You’ve no idea how much this meant to him.”

Jake was afraid that he did, and the knowledge only added to his guilt. He’d been a kid without a dad twice. He’d lost not one, but two beloved fathers, his own and his step-dad.

“Ready?” Jake asked. At Carly’s nod, he paid the bill in cash, thanked the waiter and slid out of the booth. When he realized she meant to carry Christopher to the car, he stepped closer.

“Let me do that,” he offered.

She hesitated a moment, then allowed him to slip his arms around the boy, who easily drooped like a dead weight over his shoulder. What was nowhere near a burden in his arms only added to the growing weight upon Jake’s heart.

Once they were back at Carly’s, Jake carried Christopher inside.

“Would you mind?” Carly stood in the hallway, indicating the boy’s room.

Earlier Jake had wanted the chance to check out the rest of the place, but not like this. Not this way at all.

Carly turned the blankets back. Jake laid the boy down, then stepped back so Carly could sit on the edge of the bed and take off Chris’s shoes and jeans.

“I’ll let him sleep in his T-shirt and underwear,” she whispered. “If I wake him up he’ll have a hard time getting back to sleep.”

Christopher’s room was as tidy as could be expected for a kindergartner’s. The walls were white with detailed race cars painted here and there at random. Homemade valances that matched the comforter trimmed the windows.

There were toys lying around, and near the window, a small student desk covered with crayons, markers, and construction paper. The desk chair sported a bright blue cushion on the seat.

Again Jake was reminded of his own childhood. He’d never had a lot growing up, but there was no shortage of love. After his father died and his mother remarried, Manny and Julie Olson had become his family, too.

Jackson Montgomery, his grandfather, had always been there, always trying to convince Jake that he’d be better off moving in with him full time.

They returned to the living room, and without the boy as a diversion, Carly seemed edgy and uncomfortable alone with him.

“Do I make you uncomfortable? Would you like me to leave?” he asked.

“No!” she protested, then caught herself and laughed nervously. “It’s been a while since I’ve . . . well, since I’ve been out on a date with anyone.”

He laughed. “You call that a date?”

“Actually, yes. I haven’t been on a real date for a long, long time.”

“Then I consider myself very lucky.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Decaf, if you have it, but only if you’re having some.”

She disappeared into the kitchen. He heard her rustling around, opening drawers, filling a pot with water. When she came back in, she seemed surprised to find him still standing in the middle of the room.

“Please.” She indicated the sofa. “Sit down.”

“Thanks.” He sat on one end. She chose the listing wicker rocker.

“How long have you had this place?” He thought it a safe query, one anyone might ask and not be prying.

“A while.”

After a few more attempts and getting nothing but vague answers in return, he stopped asking her questions. She went back into the kitchen to pour the coffee.

“How do you take it?” she called.

“Black is fine.” At his place he could never trust the milk not to have turned sour.

She walked back in, set a steaming mug down on the trunk, and sat in the rocker again instead of choosing the space beside him.

“I see Christopher’s into race cars,” he commented.

“Actually, it’s fire trucks now.”

“My dad was a race car driver. He died when I was eight.”

“You’re kidding? Was he famous?”

“He was getting there.” Jake nodded. “He was a NASCAR driver.” He never spoke of his father very often. The hurt was still too deep, still raw even after all these years.

“Is that how he died?”

“A pileup one Sunday afternoon.”

“It was hard for you, growing up without a father.”

It was a statement, not a question, and he knew she was thinking of Christopher.

“Sure, it was hard. We’d been best friends. I missed him. I used to go into my room and pretend he was there. I’d talk to him, tell him I hated him for dying. Then I’d end up bawling my eyes out and begging him to forgive me.

“My mom remarried about three years later to a great guy, definitely one
without
the need for speed. He was a carpenter who had custody of his only child, a daughter. Julie’s the sister I mentioned last night at the gallery.”

Carly hesitated, as if debating what she was about to say.

“Christopher’s dad was killed in an accident. Chris never knew him.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

She shook her head, stared into space. “I don’t know. He wishes he had a dad.” Then she shrugged, smiled a wistful smile. “Or a dog. Sometimes I’m not sure which he wants more.”

“Aren’t dogs allowed here?”

She looked over at him as if she’d almost forgotten she wasn’t alone.

“They are, but . . . the place is too small.”

He nodded. She had relaxed, kicked off her shoes, curled her legs up beneath her.

“You have any brothers or sisters?” he asked.

She paused with the coffee mug to her lips. Her eyes clouded before she blinked and looked down. “No. I was an only child.”

She appeared so vulnerable, so very alone. He wished he could come right out and say what he really wanted to say, ask her why she had run from Borrego Springs. Why she had changed her name, felt compelled to stay hidden all these years.

Why hadn’t she let the Saunders help her?

He was tempted to confide in her, but until he knew what she was running from, he didn’t want to spook her. He hated to think he might cause her to leave the life she was establishing for Christopher and disappear again.

He couldn’t take the chance of that happening. If it did, he doubted he’d be able to forgive himself.

So he chose safer ground. “You must have studied a lot of history to be able to recreate early California figures in your work.”

“I grew up in libraries. They were always warm and . . . well, warm.”

She stopped abruptly, leaving him to wonder—warm and what? Warm and safe?

“How’s the painting coming?”

“Which painting?”

“The one on the back porch. Is that mine?”

She smiled over the lip of her coffee mug. “Let’s just say I haven’t started yours yet.”

“What do I have to do to get one?”

Her eyes widened, as if she wondered exactly what he was hinting at. A pink blush slowly crept up her cheeks.

“What I always tell Chris when he asks for anything is that he has to be very, very good.”