The Shadow of Your Smile (24 page)

You should have never left Deep Haven. Because clearly, it’ll fall apart without you.

Emma’s words singed the back of his brain, turning the drive home from St. Paul into one giant shouting match.

A singular shouting match.

Except Emma was winning.

Your father is at home, isn’t he? Isn’t this his problem?

He needed to turn off her voice in his head.

You’re just afraid that he’ll fail. That he won’t find her. That something worse will happen to her.

Maybe he was. But his father had failed before. And he’d failed big.

You don’t seriously blame him for the shooting.

“Stop talking to me, Emma,” Kyle muttered. He turned on the radio, flipped through the stations, found nothing in this no-man’s-land so far north of the Cities. He hit the CD button and Emma’s first song queued up.

“The sky cried, and I wept,

For the hope I had lost in time . . .”

“The Rain Song.” One of Kelsey’s first, and Emma put it to a soulful ballad. It could draw him in with its husky, intoxicating sweetness.

“My faith twisted, out of control.

Or so I thought.

And as I rained . . . I sang.”

He gauged the road conditions. He’d seen cars spin out, roll over into the ditch on nights like this. The clock pushed past midnight, and his neck had started to ache.

“I sang of the thing in which I had lost

The courage to carry on.

I spoke in song,

Asking for strength and hope.”

He could almost see Kelsey at the mic, smiling at him, or sitting on her bed, guitar on her lap.

“And as I reached the chorus of my words . . .

I felt Him.

All around me.”

But Emma had a voice that could turn him inside out. Kyle had no doubt she’d land a recording contract, move to Nashville. Kyle turned the song up and let the vocals fill the car. Red and blue flashing lights and flares ahead made him slow. He passed a semi jackknifed in the ditch.

“Drops on my heart, the sky cries,

Not for me, not for my loss,

But for what I found . . . in the rain.”

What had he found? Maybe his own fears. He saw himself making the mistakes of his father and it shook him to the core. No wonder the man had retreated into himself.

He hated the rain, the darkness, the unpredictability that could surprise a guy and skid him into the ditch. Hated the crimes committed during storms, the way they could wipe away crime scenes, hide suspects.

Kyle turned off the radio, let the last of the notes find his soul.

He couldn’t control the rain. Just like his father couldn’t control every person in their town, couldn’t read their minds. Predict their sins.

You should have never left Deep Haven. Because clearly, it’ll fall apart without you.

No, maybe he’d fall apart without it. Maybe being a cop in Deep Haven meant he could hold together the world he’d grown up in, where kids rode bikes around town without fear of kidnapping, where teenagers slept out on the rocky beach, where most people kept their doors unlocked.

Please, God, take away the rain.

But He wouldn’t. There’d always be rain, always be darkness.

Chaos.

Crime.

Pain.

But perhaps there was more to find in the rain, if he looked closer.

He eased off the gas as the car ahead of him braked. It swerved, and Kyle held his breath until it straightened itself.

His windshield wipers now ran with cakes of sleet, scraping the windshield like fingernails with each pass. He should stop in Duluth, get a hotel room.

His cell phone vibrated on the seat next to him. Grabbing for his earpiece, he wrangled it into his ear and answered the call.

“Hey, Kyle.”

“Dad.” He stiffened, his voice crisp. “Where are you?”

“I’m headed to Duluth. I think your mom’s going back there.”

“In this storm? Dad, what’s going on? Kirby called and told me everything. Emma knew it too. You and Lee?”

“What do you mean Emma knew it too? Emma Nelson? You were with her?”

“Yeah. We’re sorta . . . we were dating.”

“Were?”

“It’s not going to work out.” Saying it made him hurt, right down to his bones.

“What happened?”

“Sheesh, I dunno; you tell me.
You
happened. You and Lee, and Emma knew about it and didn’t tell me.”

“There’s nothing to know, Kyle. Lee and I weren’t having an affair. We were just—”

“Oh, please, I can’t wait to hear this. Any sentence that starts out
we were just
is
so
full of truth.” He lowered his voice. “Gimme a break, Dad.”

He waited to hear something sharp and defensive, wanted it, his adrenaline stirring hot.

“Okay, you’re right. I did spend way too much time with Lee. And yes, I had feelings for her, but it was wrong, and I know that too. I wasn’t a good husband all the way around. You were right that day in the hospital, Kyle. I blew it. But I love your mom, and I want to find her and fix this. I want to put our family back together again.”

Kyle wasn’t sure why the words from his father made his chest hurt, why his eyes burned. “Good,” he managed. “I’m glad to hear that. Because . . .” His voice shook and he put a clamp on it. “We all missed you a lot.”

Silence. The rain pattered on the windshield.

“I’ll help you find her, Dad.”

A breath in, then, “Thank you.”

He was about to hang up when—

“Kyle? You might want to call Emma and tell her you’re sorry that your dad was a jerk and ask her to forgive you for being a little like him.”

“Yeah. Maybe. But maybe it’s not such a bad thing to be like my old man. See you in Duluth.”

Noelle had never feared thunderstorms. As a child, she would lie in her bed, covers tucked up to her chin, delight rippling through her as lightning crackled and thunder rumbled through the house.

No fear, just an awe at the power, knowing she was safe in her home.

Even the ice storm didn’t frighten her now, despite having to drive Eli’s truck at nearly half speed to Duluth. She’d watched the ice form on the windshield, the calming rhythm of the wipers nearly wooing her to sleep.

No, she didn’t fear the storm.

She feared the aftermath. The cleanup. The debris in the yard, the broken fences, the shattered trees.

Once, in her yard, a giant cottonwood had fallen, the branches shearing off like amputated limbs. She couldn’t bear to see it and had avoided the backyard for a month until her father cleared it.

Noelle didn’t want to return to a life where Eli had betrayed her and figure out how to forgive him.

She wanted, frankly, to forget.

She reached the hotel long after midnight, put the room on her credit card and tried to sleep in a large, lonely bed that refused to surrender warmth. Instead, she rewound the fight in her head until she finally arose before dawn and watched Venus blink to life in the dark sky. It settled her a little, like a hand over her heart.

She’d found Eric and his number on her cell phone, under the recent calls made. By ten o’clock she had dressed and found his office at the Duluth Art Institute, located in the old train station downtown. As she parked in the lot and hiked to the brown cobblestone building with Gothic turrets, a giant arched door, it nudged something inside. Yes, she’d been here before.

Maybe he’s your lover.
Eli’s voice scraped through her.

Oh, please, she hoped not.

She took the stairs to the fourth floor and found the offices of the institute. Eric Hansen’s secretary recognized her, greeting her and offering her a seat on the slick black and metal sofa. Abstracts along the lines of Picasso hung on the wall. Behind the secretary, out the window, she could see the harbor, the dockyard busy now that the ice had broken.

“Noelle. I’m so glad you called.”

Tall, good-looking, with curly brown hair, glasses. Eric wore a tweed jacket, jeans, square-toed shoes. And a smile that said they were friends.

She swallowed. He ushered her inside.

His office overlooked Lake Superior on two sides, a sleek black desk angled in the corner, a row of pictures behind it on the near wall, gallery style. A black sectional sofa made of leather and steel matched the one in the lobby and sat opposite a pair of orange molded chairs.

The place smelled modern, new, although paintings from all genres filled the walls—abstract, modern, impressionistic, even classical and Renaissance styles. She could stand for hours taking each one in, analyzing the techniques.

“How are you? I was concerned when I didn’t hear back from you.” He didn’t sit at the desk but found a place on the black sofa, unbuttoning his jacket, crossing his legs, like they were here for a friendly chat.

Noelle sank into an orange chair. “I had an accident.”

He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward. “Are you okay?”

“Getting better, but that’s why you didn’t hear from me.”

He was an attractive man, maybe midfifties, and he had groomed, precise hands. They folded now in front of him.

She searched for a feeling, anything inside that might alert her to their . . . relationship? But of course, nothing surfaced.

“Well, have you decided?”

Decided. What? To leave her husband for him?

“I can hold your position for a couple more weeks if money is an issue. We just need your confirmation one way or another. These positions are coveted and we have a long waiting list. And of course, if you still want housing, we can arrange that also.”

Oh. Oh! Her breath leaked out and for the first time, she found a smile, relief breaking through her chest. “I’m a student here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not yet, but we hope so. Next year. Is that a yes?”

“I . . . I don’t know.” She touched her temple, her head suddenly starting to ache. She hadn’t had a migraine in weeks. Please, not today. But the truth began to wash over her. She had planned on leaving Eli, on going back to school. Was divorce a part of those plans? Apparently the old Noelle had given up on her marriage as much as Eli had. And she hadn’t cheated on him, but she’d certainly kept secrets.

“Did you get a chance to look at our financial aid package?”

“I . . . That’s not the problem.”

“What did Eli say?”

Hmm. Clearly she hadn’t told Eli about Eric. But Eric knew about Eli.

“Can I ask you a strange question?” She leaned forward, clasped her hands together.

“Sure.”

“Do you know why I applied to this school?”

Eric frowned. She smiled, expecting that.

“Why does anyone apply to art school? I suppose you love art and wanted to pursue it. Let’s see—you told me that you’d loved it in college but you never finished your degree, and now that your son was graduating from high school, it was time for you to go to college again. Did I get it right? Is this a test, Noelle?”

She watched the movement on the harbor through the window, a huge tanker breaking free of the ice, lumbering out to the lake. “It’s not a test.” She looked at him, his kind smile. “I don’t know who I am, Mr. Hansen. In that accident I mentioned, I lost my memory. I didn’t know, until this moment, why I applied here. Who you even were. I’ve lost myself, my family, my life.” She shook her head, the words oddly cathartic. “I just woke up a month ago and thought I was twenty-one. I had no memory of my husband. He took me home, took care of me.”

He
had
taken care of her. Gently. Wooed her back to him.

“And I . . . well, I learned to care for him again. And our two amazing sons. The problem is, I found out a few things about our life that . . . I’m not sure I want to go back to. I’m not sure it’s a life I want to remember. I feel like I’ve wasted the last twenty-five years. Like I don’t even know who I am anymore. Maybe it’s best to forget everything and just . . . leave it behind.”

He stared at his hands, took a long breath. “Like the memory of your daughter?”

Oh. “You know about her? You know about what happened?”

He gave her a soft smile. “Of course I do. You wrote a long essay about your painting and how it helped you recover from your grief over your daughter. Our selection committee was extremely moved. But even more so by your paintings.” He considered her a long moment, his lips together. “Noelle, would you like to see the portfolio you sent us for consideration?”

“Yes.”

Eric got up, went over to a large bookshelf behind her, knelt, and opened a bottom panel. After a few moments, he returned with a thin black portfolio.

“We often hide pieces of ourselves in our paintings. You tell me what you see here.”

She opened to the first page. A watercolor of a rock, white with brown etchings—a peace sign, a giant
K
, a cross. It lay in the palm of a young hand, the sun golden behind it.

“I don’t know. It looks like something a child made.”

“You titled this
Faith
.”

The next was a picture of darkness, not pitch-black but just dark enough to accentuate the pale star over the horizon, bubbling with the dawn.

“I recognize this. The morning star.”

“You called this one
Hope
.”

The final picture was of five hands stacked on top of each other. A male hand was turned up at the bottom, the others palm down on top of it. She recognized Eli’s hand, her own, Kyle’s, Kirby’s, and on top, it must be Kelsey’s. The sunset bled out behind it, a shadow of a cross cascading over the stack.

“And this, this was
Love
.”

She wanted to fit her hand into this picture, to feel Eli’s in hers, Kyle’s on top. She wanted to belong to this family, to love them.

To remember them.

She closed the portfolio. Rested her hand on it.

Eric sat back down. “You tell me, Noelle. Was this worth twenty-five years of your life?”

She met his eyes, hers blurry. Nodded.

He let a beat pass. “Perhaps you’d like more time in making your decision about the future?”

She wiped her cheek. “Yes, I would.” Perhaps she needed time to rethink everything. As she rose, she held out her hand. “I wish I could remember you. I have a feeling you were very nice to me.”

He laughed. “Nice to see you—to meet you again, Noelle. I’ll save that spot for you as long as I can.”

She took her time as she exited, lingering before the paintings in the hallways, walking by open classrooms, people working. She missed the creative hum of a studio.

Maybe she’d start painting again at the art colony.

She paused at a metal sculpture on her way out. An oval, it formed a head at the top, curved around to a smaller head below it. Like a mother holding a child up to kiss its head.

Her hand went to the charm around her neck. She fit her thumb into the circle, felt the two grooves. Oh.

Then Noelle ran her thumb over her naked finger, now indented without the ring. It felt hollow, light.

She wanted her ring back.

Pushing through the door, she discovered the sun had arrived, burning off the clouds, the brutality of the night before. She walked toward Eli’s truck, digging the keys from her purse as she crossed the wet parking lot.

Noelle felt the movement more than she saw it out of the corner of her eye. A blur of white. She turned.

Froze.

A van thundered toward her, a heartbeat away on the slippery ice.

She jumped as a shot cracked the air.

“Noelle!”

She didn’t have to find the voice to know it, nor the arms that locked around her, tackling her to the soggy ground.

Eli.

They landed between cars, her on top of him as the van careened past.

“What—?”

“Shh. I got you, honey. Are you hurt?”

She pushed herself up, looked at Eli. He appeared ragged, unshaven, his dark eyes troubled.

“No, I’m fine but—” Behind them, she heard the van spin out of the parking lot.

He pulled her to himself, crushing her. “Oh, I’m sorry, Noelle. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Eli. What happened?”

“Ask Kyle. He thinks it was—”

“Eli, you’re bleeding.” She had leaned back and seen the blood soaking his jacket.

He looked down at the wound. “I . . . oh . . .” His face whitened as his gaze returned to hers.

She cupped her hand behind his head, pulled off her scarf, shoved it into the wound. “Just stay still, honey. Just . . . help!
Help
!
” She turned back to Eli, finding a voice that seemed suddenly very familiar. “Don’t you die on me, Eli Hueston. I’m not done with you yet.”