Tell Me No Lies (35 page)

Her own gaze was rocked by the vibrancy and the abundance, the heaps of orange pumpkins lined on the ground like plump ginger cats, the sheaves of purple Indian corn hanging from the sides of the stand, the mounds of crimson, green, and rose apples overflowing crates, boxes, and hay bales. She wanted to inhale the sight, take it in as nourishment Food to live on for a lifetime.

Quickly she scanned the faces, picking out the familiar ones. Rose looked puzzled, one hand paused in the act of putting apples in a paper bag. Trey wore a covetous expression, as though he would have given anything to see inside the car or better yet get behind the wheel. Mandy's eyes were wide with astonishment, and her jaw gaped open. Alex giggled. Her Manya didn't hide much. There was another face, too, not as dear as the rest, but growing that way. Shatiqua Williams shifted the baby snuggled against her chest and shaded her eyes with a hand.

Alex couldn't hold the suspense much longer. She opened the door and got out.

"Alex!" Mandy raced up and threw arms around her waist. "You're back! You're back!"

"My God," Rose said, coming toward her. "We didn't expect you until tomorrow."

"Caught an earlier flight," Alex said, still gazing around expectantly.

"I got your postcard," Mandy said. "I took it to school."

Trey was already looking inside the limo, so it was left to Shatiqua to get right to the heart of things.

She thumbed over her shoulder. "He's in the orchard," she said simply.

"I'll take you." Mandy grabbed her hand and pulled her.

"You'll pull her arm off," Rose scolded.

"And I need help with little Mac," Shatiqua said, separating Mandy and holding her back while she gave Alex a conspiratorial wink.

Alex mouthed a thank-you, and Shatiqua grinned.

"Trey!" Alex called.

He popped his head out of the car.

"Would you mind showing the driver bow to get to the house and help him unload the luggage?"

"Would I mind?" A stunned smile creased his face. "Do you mean it?"

Alex laughed. "Of course I mean it."

"Can I take Mandy?"

Her heart turned over that he wanted to share such a treat with his sister.

Mandy drew in a breath and looked up at Shatiqua. "Can I?"

Shatiqua rolled her eyes. "You are the laziest child. Always looking for a way out of work." She smiled. "Go on. Shoo. Don't see how no baby can beat a ride in that."

Mandy gave a whoop and leaped inside the car.

"Go on now," Rose said, nodding to her left. "He's in the north section."

Alex wrapped her coat around her and took off. It was a long walk, made longer by dry-mouthed anticipation. Hopped-up, nerves jangling like keys on a ring, she still couldn't help noticing the trees, some already bare of fruit, others not yet ready for harvesting. She tramped over the earth, breathing in the sun-cooked smell of dirt and leaves, staring up into the canopy of branches for holes of blue sky.

Fifteen minutes later, the men came interview. Mainly Jamaicans hired for the harvest, there were ten of them with picking sacks, most on ladders. Big Mac was there, too, the ghetto gear he'd first shown up in hooded sweatshirt and do-rag now replaced by a ball cap that still managed to look reprehensible.

Her lips tilted in a half grin. When it became clear Hank would take months to heal, they'd scrambled to hire a farmhand. Hank mentioned McTeer, and though Ben had been leery of his inner-city credentials, Rose had been intrigued by McTeer's loyalty to his family and his effort to keep his employer out of trouble, even at his own expense. She asked Mac, Shatiqua, and the baby to come out for a visit, then a two-week trial. The two weeks had turned into months. McTeer was smart and eager for the steady paycheck, Shatiqua far a stable home. In the end, Rose gave them Maureen and Tom's old house, and the new family swept out the memories by making new ones. Shatiqua proved invaluable with the children Mandy was half in love with little Mac and having lived through hard times herself, she was wise to Trey. The arrangement had worked for everyone, and it treed up Hank to do nothing but get well.

From behind a clutch of trees, she spotted him by the flatbed attached to the tractor, shifting apple bins. Her breath caught. Should he be doing that kind of heavy lifting?

He looked strong and straight, moved without the sad, hunched-over shuffle of the early days. She took a moment to admire him. Tanned and healthy again, he was the same strapping figure who'd entered her life the eve of her party for Renaissance Oil, or almost the same.

Another scar rode his body now. Another death escaped.

A quiver ran through her as she remembered the blood, the grim ride following the ambulance, the despair that even at the last Petrov would take someone else from her.

But Hank had lived. She knew it for the miracle it was, but it had shaken him. She'd seen it in the depths of his green eyes, the bewilderment, the gratitude, the uncertainty.

She knew about his crazy decision to leave the police force. Bob Parnell had been a frequent visitor to the hospital, and he'd worked out a deal with Rose, keeping Hank nominally on the payroll until he was well enough to confirm the decision he claimed he wanted to make.

Had he made it yet?

***

Hank's heart jumped when he saw her outlined against . the trees. Feeling the pulse, he set down the crate of apples and ran a hand over his chest. That much-bruised organ still pumped inside him.

He' d had plenty of time to accept that fact of life. Plenty of time to recognize the gift and decide to accept it. What else could he do? He'd offered himself to the universe, and the gods had thrown his gift back at him.

He'd taken the bullet, and she'd lived. They both had.

He'd be an ungrateful bastard not to say thank you.

He put a finger to his lips, nodded toward the trees. She backed up, and he murmured to McTeer.

"Be right back."

McTeer peered at him from under the rim of his ball cap. Apple House was scrawled across the top and dusted with leaves and dirt. It hung low over his forehead and looked like it had lived there for years instead of a few months. "Take yourself a vacation. I got it under control."

Hank had to admit he did. Bonner's job corps had worked out better than expected.

He strolled off with slow, casual steps, though that thing inside him, the thing that refused to give up and stop beating, was thumping away like a wild creature.

She was waiting behind a thick stand of Macouns that wouldn't be ready to pick for another few weeks.

"Sashka," he said softly, drinking her in. "You're home."

"Excellent deduction, Detective. You work fast."

He reached for her face, tucked a stray piece of hair back. It slid through his fingers, smooth and satiny as cornsilk. "You don't."

She huffed. "I don't think a month is too long to change the world."

"I do." He leaned in, inhaling her scent, cool and sharp as a fall morning, and skimmed her lips. She sank against him, wrapping arms around his neck, enveloping him with her energy, her life force. He held her close, letting it warm him.

She spoke low in his ear. "So, Detective, how have you been? Stalked any other suspects, uncovered any more secrets?"

"Only my own."

"Ah. Those are the best kind."

He pulled away to look at her. "You think so?"

"I know so. Take my own, for example. I thought bringing down Miki Petrov would make me happy."

"And has it?"

"There's a certain satisfaction, yes."

"But?"

"But now I'm at loose ends. I don't know what to do with myself." She peered up at him. "Perhaps you have a few ideas."

"I might." He thumbed over his shoulder. "This place could use an overhaul."

"I understood you've already hired someone to do that. Rose e-mailed me that next year McTeer wants to bring out a crew from St. Martin's Square so we won't have to import harvest help."

He caught the phrasing, and it set off a little earthquake inside him. "We?"

She looked at him calmly. "I believe that's what I said. Is it true?"

"About McTeer? Yeah. He's a real go-getter."

"So he's aced me out of the picture." She gave him a small, regretful shrug. "I had something else in mind anyway."

"I'm all ears."

She held his gaze steadily, her expression composed, her words direct. "I thought you might like to make an honest woman of me."

Something tightened inside him, a spring waiting to uncoil. "Don't you think I should make an honest man out of myself first? Get a job so I could support you in style."

"Well, I didn't want to mention it earlier, but I do have rather a lot of money."

He saw a gleam in her smoky eyes. "Could have fooled me."

"It's true. I'm rich. And I remember you saying once that you'd prefer to marry a rich girl."

He nodded. "This is true."

"So what's the problem?"

"I don't think I'd like being a kept man."

Instantly, Alex sobered. "No. I don't think you'd like it either." She touched his face, the rough surface sweet to her fingertips. "So where does that leave us?"

"Back where we started."

"Maybe you could get a job."

"A job." He turned that thought over in his head, just as he'd been doing for weeks. "Doing what?"

"What you used to do."

She said it quietly, but the air seemed suddenly weighted, fate turning once again. "Ah, Sasha Jane, you know me too well."

"Been talking to Parnell?"

"Says he's ready when I'm ready."

"And are you?"

He leaned against the tree, letting it support him. He felt as though he'd passed an enormous test, and now it was over. Yuri was behind bars in Attica. Petrov was dead and his thugs were out of their lives. Alex was safe.

With McTeer and his family solidly in place, Apple House was taken care of, and Ben had backed off on his push to sell.

Trey and Mandy had spent an uneventful summer and were settling into a new school year.

Everyone seemed to have found their rightful places in the cosmos. Wasn't it time to take his?

He looked at Alex. She was watching him carefully, trying hard not to show her deep concern. But he saw right through her. "It's not a job that's conducive to long-term relationships. Call-outs in the middle of the night, days away, lots of stress. Puts pressure on a marriage."

"Bob's been married for thirty years."

"Bob?"

"Lieutenant Parnell."

He narrowed his eyes in mock suspicion. "On a first-name basis with the boss, are we?"

She stood her ground. "I'm a VIP, Detective. I call everyone by their first name."

"So you and 'Bob' have been talking."

"He thinks we suit."

"Does he?"

"I do, too."

He nodded, understanding perfectly. "You're ganging up on me."

"All we need is a little luck."

The word spiraled inside him. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"Why be afraid of what you can't control?"

"I can control whether or not I play."

"Well, my life has been one huge lucky streak since you walked into it."

"How do you figure that?"

"You saved my life twice. Once at the house and once at the cabin. You uncovered my secrets and helped me do the one thing I've wanted to do for thirteen years. You showed me that a family is possible, and I don't have to walk alone anymore. You make dreams come true, Detective."

He smiled to himself. She made him sound like Walt Disney and the Good Witch of the North rolled into one. "I don't know. It's risky."

"Life is risk, Hank. I love you. Be with me. Marry me. Take one more chance. I promise it will pay off."

"A million to one odds."

"The kind I like. How do you think I made all that money?" She took his hand, kissed it, and laid it along her cheek. "Stick with me, Detective. I've got all the luck you'll ever need,"

Her words struck a chord deep within. Maybe it was her luck that had gotten them through.

Or maybe luck had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was just her. Alone, he stumbled through the universe in endless confusion. Things only worked in tandem. Together. With love.

Who knew? No one. It was all a big question, the answer a choice we make. She was right. Life was risk. But it was a risk worth taking.
She
was a risk worth taking.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. "Countess, you've got yourself a deal."

* * * THE END * * *

Tell Me No Lies
was inspired by actual events. In 1991, the entire treasury of the Soviet Communist Party did indeed disappear, and two of its treasurers threw themselves out of windows within six weeks of each other. The Russian government hired the international private detective firm Kroll Associates to find the money, but after several months and a cost of nearly a million dollars they hadn't founds trace of the missing cash. The Russians then turned to the U.S. intelligence community for help. But a high-level White House group refused to let them intervene, calling the money's disappearance "capital flight," a normal part of any country's economic risk.

The money's whereabouts remain a mystery.

A native New Yorker, Annie Solomon has been dreaming up stories since she was ten. After a twelve-year career in advertising, where she rose to Vice President and Head Writer at a midsize agency, she abandoned the air conditioners, furnaces, and heat pumps of her professional life for her first love romance. An avid knitter, she now lives in Nashville with her husband and daughter. To learn more, visit her at www.anniesolomon.com.