The Shadow of Your Smile (9 page)

The crack woke him. Sharp and bright, like a gunshot, it sparked through Kyle, grabbed him from sleep, jerked him to a sitting position, his heart choking off his breath.

Outside the picture window of his two-room cabin, way up the hill above Deep Haven, the night had receded across the lake, the sun just nudging over the eastern horizon, turning the canvas of the earth to fire.

He listened above his racing heart for the crunch of feet in the snow, a creak of his deck boards that might betray an intruder, all the while reaching over to his bedside table. He nudged open the drawer, slid his hand around his 9mm Glock—still in the holster, safety on—and nestled it on his lap. He unsnapped it, drew it out, but didn’t take the safety off quite yet.

He heard nothing.

Pushing the covers aside, he climbed out of bed and padded across the floor to the window. He hadn’t bothered with drapes or even real furniture when he moved in a month ago. Who needed curtains anyway? No one could see him, standing here in his bedroom window in his pajama bottoms, barefoot, bare-chested, holding a Glock.

But he’d make a great target for a sniper in the woods. He moved away from the window, his breath catching for a moment.

Oh, his father’s words had simply dug too far into his brain.
A small-town cop is one of the most dangerous jobs. You let your guard down because you want to trust your neighbors. And that’s when they pull out a gun and shoot you.

Or someone you love.

His father didn’t have to reach too far to cite an example.

Kyle had expected him to be more wary, even distant, after Kelsey died. But suddenly he’d become less of a hometown peace officer and more of a truant officer. He treated everyone as if they might be criminals.

Perhaps, in his eyes, they were.

Despite public sympathy, he’d been voted out of office, his ten years as the sheriff over. Rather than stay on the force working under a new sheriff, he took an early retirement.

But maybe his father was right.

Grabbing a blanket from the pile of sheets he’d requisitioned from home, Kyle shook one out, then retrieved a hammer off the kitchen counter, a couple of tacks from the utility drawer, and hung it up over the bedroom window.

He did the same across the matching window in the family room.

His heart began to settle back into his chest as he listened again. He was just hyperaware now that he’d been walking around town for a month in his uniform, a sort of target. And with his mother’s assailant still free . . .

He glanced at the clock. Probably should get up and work out, anyway. He’d been hanging around Lucy Maguire’s World’s Best Donuts and Cupcakes too much.

He did like those red velvet cupcakes, though.

After changing into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, he washed up, filled a water bottle, grabbed his uniform and gear, and headed out to his truck.

His boots crunched against the snow, the air crisp in his ears. He guessed it was about ten above today, a nice day for snowshoeing or skiing.

As he threw the bag inside, another crack split the air.

He froze. And then grimaced at his own foolishness. The weight of the snow on the trees had caused them to break, the cracks resounding through the forest like gunshots.

See how easily a guy could jump to conclusions?

He got into the truck, wove along the drive to the road, then down the highway to Deep Haven. This early, deer peeked out from between trees, poised to dart across the highway to the lake in a dangerous real-life game of Frogger. Sometimes he got lucky and spied a moose or a red fox. An eagle lifted from a ratty nest high in a tree, then soared low along the ditch, searching for carrion.

How could his mother forget their lives? Kirby had been calling him with bleak updates, the stories he’d told her, the pictures—carefully selected—that might jog her memory.

Always with Kelsey absent.

How was his mother supposed to remember her life without including her daughter?

Kyle turned down the heat in the truck, tapped his brakes as he entered the town limits. The memory of the fight in the hospital could still rouse fury deep in his gut.

He wasn’t sure at whom anymore.

The fitness center glowed, early morning athletes on treadmills, stair-climbers, ellipticals. Their new football coach was at the pull-up bar. Kyle had heard about Caleb Knight and his missing leg, a casualty of battle. Mostly, however, he’d heard about how he took the team to the play-offs this year and the very real hope that next year, they might win state.

Another former soldier, Sammy Johnson, his curly blond hair tied back with a red bandanna, worked out at the bench press. Sammy had played defensive end during Kyle’s sophomore year of high school, then graduated and joined the Army. Kyle had a vague memory of reading about him in the local paper a year ago—maybe winning some military honor? Now he worked on a logging crew.

Jason Backlund spotted for Sammy as he benched. Jason and Kyle had put together a little band their sophomore year, more fun than pretty. It gave Kyle a place to use the drum set he’d worn out doing solos in the basement. Now Jason had a lucrative winter gig running a plow for the county.

Lucky Jason—he was living Kyle’s hopes, building a life with the girl of his dreams in Deep Haven.

Shoot, but he couldn’t get Emma out of his head. Over the past three days, Kyle had remembered her more. She’d worked at the gas station in town with Kelsey, and he remembered seeing her in the band during his basketball games. If only he hadn’t been a senior during Kelsey’s freshman year, he might have known her friends—like Emma—better. But he’d had his eyes on a scholarship and spent most of his time in the gym.

He dropped his gear into a locker, the echoes of high school conversations too easily conjured, then returned to the weight room.

Upper body. He warmed up with a few push-ups, then grabbed the free weights to work on his biceps, doing some preacher curls.

He’d made a routine of working out while in high school, and by college it became a way for him to focus. To remind himself that he hadn’t lost control of his life. Even if it seemed to be careening out of his grasp.

Like today.

He switched to skull crunchers, working his triceps.

Oh, God, please help Mom get her memory back.
It was more of a thought than a prayer, because after Kelsey, he’d wondered if God was really on his team.

It certainly seemed as if He’d abandoned the Hueston family when Kelsey lay bleeding behind the bakery stand, dropped there by a shot to her upper body on her way to the freezer.

Yes, God had dropped the ball there—especially for a family who had spent their lives in the pew and doing service projects, trying to live as God-fearing people.

If God would start playing by the rules, it would sure be easier to trust Him.

He switched to the military press, working his shoulders until his muscles nearly gave out.

“Hey, Kyle.” Jason came over to the leg press. “How’s your mom?”

Hard to escape the small-town grapevine. “She’s still recovering.” He moved the bar behind his head to work his delts.

“Can’t believe it happened again.” Jason shook his head as he worked his thigh muscles. “Any word on who did it?”

“No.” He put the weights back, then grabbed a twenty-pounder and held it to his body as he started sit-ups. “They don’t have a lot to go on. No witnesses, and any tracks wiped clean with the snow.”

“Quite the storm. I was up all night plowing. I do the stretch between Silver Bend and Deep Haven. Terrible night. Thankfully, with the winter storm advisory, there weren’t many cars out. I called the patrol for two I saw in the ditch. One was Ryan Nickel’s old beater.”

“I know Ryan,” Sammy said, passing near them to grab a towel. He hung it around his neck, holding on to the ends.

“He was a year older than you, wasn’t he? Played point for the Huskies?” Kyle said.

“Yeah. And safety on the football team. He holds our record for most interceptions. When we went to the play-offs, he painted his car blue and white and put his number on the hood, a football helmet on his back window.”

Jason switched legs. “It was a real sweet thing, an old Dodge Dart.”

“I’m not sure how it stays running, but I remember him driving it through the fields out by his place,” Sammy said. “It’s nearly rusted through—I think there’s plywood on the floorboards. I’m not sure it’s even legal to drive.”

Kyle finished his sit-ups. Leaned back on his hands. “Does he still own it?”

Jason was breathing hard and quit his reps. “I don’t know. It wasn’t Ryan pushing it out of the ditch. Two guys though, a skinny one in the car, the other one giving it a heave. It looked like they’d just spun out and banged the back end against a tree. I called it in, but by the time I came back to plow the other side of the road, they’d gotten free. Not sure if a patrol car came out.”

Kyle got up. “Where was this?”

“A couple miles out of town, maybe. Near the Crescent River lookout.”

Kyle scrubbed a towel down his face, then draped it over his head. “Do you remember what time?”

“About eight o’clock or so? I can’t remember.”

Eight o’clock. About ninety minutes after the robbery. Kyle had called down to the Lake County deputies, the next county over, just to sort through the logged calls from the night of his mom’s accident. No suspicious vehicles.

The suspect had simply vanished.

Unless he’d kept going north. Toward Deep Haven.

And perhaps the current owner of Ryan Nickel’s car had seen someone, or something, on his drive up the shore.

Sammy flicked the towel at him. “Glad you’re back, Hueston. You should join us for Sunday afternoon hoops.”

Kyle nodded.

“I’ll see you at the game tonight. Kirby’s a real star—got a great three-point shot.” Sammy gave him a smile. “You Huestons always know how to get the job done, but you might remind him to pass the ball now and again.”

Yeah, well, passing the ball required trust that someone would catch it. Sometimes it was better to be a one-man team.

Jason headed for the locker room also, then turned back. “Hey—did Nicole talk to you about playing drums for us this weekend for the wedding? Apparently she’s hired someone out of Minneapolis to play guitar, but she mentioned needing a drummer. I’d have to pay you in wedding cake, but we’d really appreciate it.”

Kyle followed him into the locker room. “Who’s the guitarist?”

“She’s from Deep Haven, a couple years younger than us. The Nelson girl—I think her name’s Emma. Remember her?”

Kyle smiled. Maybe God was finally playing fair. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I might.”

What had Noelle done with the last twenty-five years of her life?

She hadn’t even graduated from college, from what she could tell. And forget her painting, her photography. The only pictures on the wall were cheesy oils one might pick up at a discount art store.

Stepping on the scale had made her march down to the kitchen and pull out the tortilla chips, the ice cream, the Oreos, and the Nutty Bars and throw them in the trash. She did notice that Kirby came along behind her, fished out the ice cream, and stuck it in the basement deep-well freezer.

Fine. Carrot sticks and salad for her.

Now she stood at the stove, separating egg yolks from the whites, a pan heating on one burner, a teakettle on the other. A couple pieces of lightly buttered wheat bread lay on a plate. She’d found the loaf shoved way back in the freezer, as if her old self had briefly resurrected and made a feeble attempt at healthy eating.

She hadn’t bothered to figure out the coffeemaker—even when Kirby came out of his room yesterday morning inquiring about a cup of coffee on his way to school.

What, was she a short-order cook too?

And what had happened to her personal style? Stretchy lounge pants, T-shirts, oversize sweatshirts with embroidery on the front? She’d turned . . . frumpy.

No, no, no, this couldn’t be her life, but the longer she lived here, the more the truth sank in. She’d found a collection of art books in a box in the basement storage room. And a wedding dress that matched the one in the picture. And finally, her old high school letter jacket hanging in a hall closet.

Oh, the waste.

She poured the egg whites into a pan, began to scramble them. The smell rose, taunting her empty stomach. She’d hidden in bed this morning until she’d heard Eli’s truck start up and grumble its way out of the driveway.

She’d dreaded yesterday, her first day alone with him after Sunday’s long, drawn-out silences, Kirby trying to make her feel at home. Thankfully, Eli had pulled out right after Kirby and been gone most of the day, so she’d wandered around the house looking for clues to her life. She opened the other two bedrooms—one of them so clearly Kyle’s, with a picture of the two of them standing on a basketball court, giving the camera a thumbs-up. She looked younger, but not by much.

The other room was barren—no sheets on the double bed, a crisp, unused chill to the room. She doubted they’d had guests here anytime in the last decade.

And did she have any friends at all? Because no one called. Not one person to inquire after her. Was she a miserable loner, devoid of a life?

She finally couldn’t take it and spent the day cleaning out the cupboards, waiting for Eli to return. He pulled in after dark, covered in wood chips, his face red as if he’d been outdoors all day.

He dropped his coveralls in the entryway, then headed down to shower in the basement.

“Did you cook supper?” He’d asked her that as she sat watching the news—what had happened to President Reagan?

She’d frowned at him and could see the war inside him as he bit back something and managed to surface with a tolerant smile.

Supper.
Really.

Her role here had obviously sunk to that of domestic slave. Indeed, she unearthed very few feminine touches in the house—even the downstairs television room boasted team pennants and a full-size decal of a Minnesota Viking, number twenty-eight.

Even the dog had surrendered her femininity. Who named a female dog Riggins? The poor thing had found Noelle sitting in the family room, watching the waves of snow outside the window, and set her floppy mug on Noelle’s knee, her sad eyes blinking as if confused.

Yeah, me too, Rigs.

Noelle scooped the eggs onto one of the slices of bread, then turned off the heat. She added salt and pepper and put the plate on the counter near the high-top chairs. She went in search of the tea she’d seen earlier as the kettle whistled.

She was opening cupboards when Kirby emerged from his room, a blue sports bag over his shoulder. He wore a button-down shirt, a tie, and a pair of dress pants.

Yes, she liked this young man. He’d arrived home last night after school, also after dark, smelling of the gym. After showering, he made himself a grilled cheese sandwich and joined her in the family room, giving her a play-by-play of practice. Apparently he was working on his three-point shot.

“Kyle holds the record for the most outside shots in a game. He had a signature swish shot from the top of the key that he nailed every time.”

Ah, her shot. Maybe Kyle
was
her flesh and blood. “I played guard all through high school. Lettered, too. We should shoot some one-on-one after the snow melts. . . .”

Kirby had grinned at that but her words wound tight inside her.

How long did she intend on staying here? The thought tossed her in her sheets all night until she finally got up and stared at the moonlight, so bright on the snow.

What if she never regained her memory? Would she stay here, in this place, with people she didn’t know?

And looking at Eli, at the debris of a life she couldn’t believe she’d created, did she truly want to get her memory back?

“Morning, Mom,” Kirby said, dropping his bag in the kitchen. “Perfect, breakfast. You remembered!” He sat down, pulled the sandwich to himself, picked it up.

She stilled, glanced at him, at his broad grin, his green eyes bright.

Oh, she hated to—

He must have seen her expression, for his dimmed. “Oh. Well, you always make me breakfast on a game day.” He put the sandwich down. “Sorry; is this yours?”

“No, it’s for you . . . Son. Eat up.” She turned away, the endearment ringing inside.
Son.
Okay, she could admit some feelings of affection building there.

She pulled down a tea bag, opened it, and dropped it into a mug. Pouring in the hot water, she let it steep. “What time is your game?”

“Four o’clock. You’re coming, right?”

Uh . . . “I don’t know anyone there, Kirby.”

“You know me.” He looked away, and she hated the hurt on his face.

“I’ll try.”

He gave her a soft smile then.

“By the way, do you know where your father went? He left again this morning, early.”

Kirby was gobbling down the sandwich. “No. Maybe he went fishing. He does that a lot. Or sometimes he goes into town and eats breakfast with the deputies at World’s Best.”

Seriously? The man would leave her alone to eat with friends? But then, did she really want him here?

“Kirby, can I ask you what happened between your dad and me? Why is he so . . . distant? And angry?”

Kirby swallowed the last of his sandwich slowly. Didn’t look at her when he wiped his mouth. “It’s been a hard few years. You and Dad were . . . Well, it’s not all his fault, Mom.”

It seemed to pain him to admit that, and she resisted the strange urge to press her hand to his, to comfort him.

“Did something bad happen?”

Kirby wiped his mouth again. Took a breath.

In the entryway, the door slammed. Eli stood in the kitchen doorway. “I changed your tires, Kirby. You should be good to go.”

Kirby had gone a little pale and now slid off the stool. Picked up his bag. “Thanks, Dad.”

Eli nodded, then disappeared, probably to dispense of those awful coveralls. Please.

Kirby lingered in the kitchen, looking at her, waiting, it seemed, for something.

“Have a good day?” she offered.

His smile failed him.

“What am I not doing, Kirby?”

“You always pray with me before I leave for school, especially on game day. I just thought . . . aw, it’s no big deal.”

See, she
was
a woman of faith. Even if she couldn’t feel it. “Okay, uh, how do we do this?”

“You usually put your hand on my shoulder.”

She could do that. She gripped his shoulder, trying to think of a blessing, of anything.

Then suddenly she heard, “Lord, we ask for Your blessing on Kirby today as he plays basketball. Protect him in the game, and help him to play for You to the best of his abilities. Amen.” Eli lifted his hand off Kirby’s other shoulder. “Have a good day, Son.”

Noelle stared at him, nonplussed, as Kirby gave him a hug, then grinned at her and headed out the door.

Eli’s voice—solid and affectionate for his son—nudged a feeling of warmth inside her. Perhaps she’d been a smackle too harsh on the man.

Once upon a time, she’d loved him enough to marry him. To stay with him for twenty-five years. Which meant that, deep down inside, there was something about this man worth knowing.

“I’m going to go clean up,” Eli said.

Noelle nodded, picking up Kirby’s empty plate. She took two more slices of bread, toasted them, and separated two more eggs as she heard the shower running downstairs.

She had just slid the new eggs onto her plate and settled down with her tea when he reemerged. He smelled clean, of fresh soap, and he’d shaved, his hair combed. He had curls like Kirby, and they corkscrewed around his ears. In a pair of jeans and a white-and-black flannel shirt, he might be considered handsome for a man his age. He rolled up his sleeves above his elbows, revealing strong forearms.

She wasn’t sure why she said it, but, “Would you like me to make you some eggs?”

When he turned, she noticed his eyes. Reddened, as if he hadn’t slept much, but a pretty brown. They examined her for a long moment. Then he shook his head. “I’ll just make some coffee. But . . . thank you.”

He turned away from her, grabbing the carafe from the coffeemaker.

“Eli? How did we meet?”

He turned back, coffeepot in hand. “I rescued you.”

She set down her tea. “You
rescued
me? From what? A raging moose?”

“No.” He filled the pot with water, returned to the coffeemaker, and poured it in. “Up under your hair you have a scar.”

She raised her fingers to her scalp.

He came over, took her hand in his, moved it over to a bump. “There. You hit the windshield.”

He had a tenderness in his touch, but she appreciated that he stepped away, resumed his coffee making.

“What happened?”

“You were on your way here to visit your parents. They’d taken a cabin for the summer, and you were driving up pretty late at night.” He added coffee grounds. “You T-boned a deer, slid off the road, and hit a tree. I was on duty that night.”

“So you arrived on the scene, pried me out of the car, and asked me on a date?”

He switched on the machine, and the coffee started to gurgle as he turned, leaning against the counter. Now that he’d taken off his coveralls, he didn’t seem quite as rotund. In fact, he had lean hips, strong legs, a wide, powerful chest. “Something like that. I knew you were staying with your parents, so I stopped in to see how you were.” He smiled, and she could imagine that, twenty years ago, he might have been sweet and charming like Kirby. Or Kyle.

She might have said yes to a date back then.

Noelle ran her thumb down the side of her cup, considering him for a long moment. “I’d like to get my memory back, Eli. I would like to remember our life together.”

Eli blinked at that, then looked away, an emotion she couldn’t place flickering across his face. He did want that too, didn’t he?

“Do you want me to remember, Eli?”

He looked at her, the curmudgeon briefly resurrecting. “Of course I do.” Perhaps he saw his words reflected in her expression, for he sighed, his voice softer. “Yes, of course I do.”

Oh. Maybe that emotion had been hurt or grief. She hadn’t really thought about what it might be like for him, for her to lose the life they’d shared.

Then he came over, his dark eyes solemn. “It’s just that I’m not sure you’re going to like what you find, Noelle. And I’m not sure either of us is ready for that.”