You Don't Know Me (18 page)

But the man was looking at Nathan, his green eyes considering him. “You really are a visionary, aren’t you?”

He wasn’t sure—

“I admit, Nathan, that I came out here wondering who I was running against. But I suddenly feel like buying a house.” Seb walked past him. “Yeah, we could put our bed here, and on the other side of the house, two more bedrooms.”

“For kids?”

“Maybe one for my dad. The trailer is getting old. And he could use someone to watch over him. He’s in better health since he stopped drinking, but all those years wasted him away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Seb walked to the rough-in for the expansive bathroom, the walk-in closet. “He just kept trying to outrun his demons. Until he finally figured out that he’d already been forgiven and there was nothing to run from anymore.” He turned in the space. “I think I could fit a sauna in here.”

Nothing to run from anymore.
Or maybe it was a matter of not running. Standing firm.

“Absolutely. And a hot tub.” Nathan walked into the room, mapping it out for Seb. Joked about wives needing two or three times the closet space.

They worked out a plan for the kitchen, then talked about the easements on the property along the shoreline for water and gas lines and electricity.

“It’s a lot of work, but it could really be a magnificent place when it’s finished,” Nathan said.

Seb nodded. “Anything worth doing well takes work. Coach Presley used to tell us that. If we wanted something of value, like a state championship, we had to be willing to fight for it.”

Of course everything came back to football. Football players thought they owned the corner on toughness, on courage. But just because Nathan had never really played didn’t mean he didn’t know how to fight for what he wanted. He’d been doing that his entire life, hadn’t he?

Besides, try running a marathon and say it’s not about courage.

Nathan resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead managed a smile. “Let me know when you’re ready to make an offer.”

Seb shook his hand, held it a little longer than Nathan expected. “Thanks for showing me the house, Nathan. You have an eye for a treasure. I’ll have to sit down with Lucy and see if she’s willing to go on this ride with me. I’d love to roll up my sleeves and see what we can build together.”

Nathan recognized the spark of a newlywed in his expression. Oh, to be young and starting out with Annalise again. “If you need help crunching the numbers, give me a shout. I’ll be glad to work through an offer with you,” he said as they walked to their cars.

Seb turned to him, holding open his door, and gave a slow
smile, the kind that probably won him his team’s trust—and the voters’. “I’d rather not lose to you, but if I do, I know the town will be in good hands.”

Nathan had no words for that as he climbed into his car, followed Seb’s to the highway.

He could be in big trouble against Seb Brewster and the way he disarmed his opponents.

Nathan called his office on the way back to town, pulling over when he hit the zone for a cell signal. Along this stretch of highway, the service spotted in and out. Today, with a clear sky, it worked.

Only then did he notice he was at the corner of Cutaway Creek. He’d been so engrossed in thought, he’d taken the curve without hearing the voices. Without seeing, in his mind, his father swerving too hard, slamming into Moe Jorgenson’s Subaru.

Then vaulting over the guardrail into the river.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stopped, let the curve lure him to the edge to examine, to imagine the tragedy. He debated a moment, then got out.

A crisp wind rushed into his ears, tugged at his tie, wrapped it around his neck.

The Cutaway Creek gorge ran from some northern lake right down into Lake Superior, a tumble of jagged boulders cutting through the landscape to form more of a frothy river than a creek. In the springtime, the runoff could nearly reach the bridge with its force.

Tourists stood with their cameras, tracing every jagged edge, every turn of the water.

Nathan knew it by heart.

He too had spent hours here, angry that his fear held him captive. Because of Cutaway Creek, he’d become too terrified to swim.
Because of Cutaway Creek, he woke—sometimes even now—with nightmares of drowning, grit in his throat, the icy grip stealing his breath.

Just the thought of water rushing over his head could paralyze him. Turn him into that twelve-year-old kid who refused to get in the pool during gym class. The one who hid in the locker room like a coward until his mother managed to get him excused from class.

Even now, as he ventured to the edge, the roar of the water in his ears wrapped a fist around his heart. He willed away the slick rush of fear and checked his voice mail.

No messages. Turning his back to the river, he called Annalise at home, but the phone went to the machine, and she didn’t pick up her cell.

He watched the creek, this time from the north, where it dropped from a waterfall and into the gorge.

Maybe he came here just to confirm that he wasn’t his father. That he’d never, ever give up on the people he loved.

He got into his sedan and pulled away. Maybe he’d sneak up to the school and watch Jason’s rehearsal.

Or perhaps he should stop by and have a heart-to-heart with his mother before Frank could wheedle his way further into her life. Nathan swallowed back the acid in his throat. He didn’t know why the thought of Frank courting his mother set his insides to roil, but he had to get a handle on the fact that his mother did seem to enjoy the man’s company.

Didn’t she deserve to fall in love? To be happy? She’d sacrificed so much raising him. What if she did fall in love? Would Nathan pick someone different from Frank?

As he entered town and turned toward the school, he waved to Joann Hauck on the sidewalk, walking her little terrier, the dog
dressed for winter in a pink sweater. She waved back, thumbs-upping him.

Looked like he could count on her vote.

There was something about Frank he didn’t trust, especially after the conversation with Annalise he’d overheard. But maybe he read too much into what was said. Annalise hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t acted remote or in the least like she might be really leaving him. Maybe she’d just been reacting to some request for her to travel with Frank, maybe to some family gathering. If Frank moved to town, perhaps it would fill the loneliness, the grief that always lurked inside his wife.

Instead of fighting the man, perhaps Nathan should make efforts to get to know him. To embrace him. To give him a chance to prove himself like Seb had suggested.

Nathan glanced through the school parking lot as he got out, searching for Annalise’s SUV. Not here, which meant that she was probably picking up Henry, maybe even at home, cooking. Jason often caught a lift home from rehearsal when he was involved in a show—he would probably appreciate the ride.

Nathan opened the door to the theater. He heard voices coming from down the hallway, along the back entrance.

Lines from
Romeo and Juliet
. Even he recognized them.

“O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father and refuse thy name;

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”

He remembered reading the play in English class so many years ago in this very school. And this voice was sweet and light, as if she
meant it. Give up her name, her identity, for the man she loved. It’s what women did all the time.

He heard the shifting of pages, then:

“Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized;

Henceforth I never will be Romeo—”

“No, Jason, you skipped my favorite part—‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet . . .’”

Nathan slowed his step, listening as his son’s voice dropped. He had heard Jason rehearse before but never with such depth. Perhaps he was made for this part.

“‘By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am: My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it is an enemy to thee.’”

“Jason—”

“Say the line.”

“Fine—‘Art thou not Romeo and a Montague?’”

“‘Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.’”

The girl giggled just as Nathan turned down the hall.

“You’re not supposed to kiss me yet!”

“I’m improvising.”

Indeed. Nathan stopped at the sight of his son, one hand braced against the wall, the other holding his open script, leaning down to kiss Harper Jacobsen. He didn’t know what to do. Clear his throat? Turn away? Stand there frozen in the hallway?

But wow, he remembered exactly the moment he’d first kissed Annalise. A quick, stolen moment as he’d dropped her off at her house. She was so jumpy—he walked her to the door and she
dropped her keys on the porch. He’d bent to get them and found her crouched beside him.

He wasn’t sure why he’d done it—he’d just looked up at her and it felt right to lean forward, to kiss her, to taste the vanilla ice cream on her still-cold lips. She’d stiffened at first and then smiled into his eyes. And the truth was he couldn’t be sure, but he thought she’d wiped away a tear.

Then she’d stood and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. As if he’d done her a favor.

But really, she’d been the one to bless him. For twenty years they’d lived a calm, safe life. No drama, no Romeo and Juliet tragedy, no theatrics.

Just blessed.

Nathan cleared his throat.

Jason jumped away from Harper as if she were hot to the touch.

Nathan smiled. “Sorry to interrupt. Is rehearsal over yet?”

His son stared at him like he wanted to choke him. Either that or run in horror.

Harper had turned red.

“I’ll wait in the car. Unless you’d like to go ahead and drink poison first and put yourself out of your misery?”

“I’ll be right there, Dad,” Jason said, his jaw tight.

Nathan swung his keys around his finger as he slid into the car, laughing. Yes, he should be grateful he’d escaped the teenage angst of falling in love. When he’d fallen, it had been for real, with the woman of his dreams. His soul mate.

Jason climbed into the car a few minutes later. Didn’t look at his father.

Nathan hid a smirk. “So do you like her?” he asked as he backed out of the parking lot.

His son lifted a shoulder.

“Jason, if you kiss a girl, you should mean it.”

“I mean it.”

Maybe Nathan should have a talk with him later about what it meant to love someone. How it meant respect and belief and loyalty.

Nathan pulled into the garage, hoping to smell pork chops as he walked into the house.

Instead a pall of darkness hung over the lonely kitchen. No frying pan on the stove, no wife chopping salad. No Henry at the kitchen table, wrestling with homework.

“Annalise?”

Nathan set his briefcase on the floor and heard the television downstairs. He went halfway down. Henry sat curled on the sofa, remote in hand.

“Where’s your mother?”

“I don’t know. She told me to watch television.”

Annalise told their son to watch television? Was she running a high fever? He climbed back upstairs, stood in the family room, then wandered down the hall to their room.

The light was off, the shades drawn. He wouldn’t have noticed her but for the sobs erupting from the space between the dresser and the closet.

“Annalise?” When he flicked on the light, it washed over her—disheveled, red-faced, her legs caught to her chest. “What’s going on?”

She shook her head, then covered it with her arms as if she wanted to curl into a ball.

He crouched before her, put his hand on her arm. What in the
world? “I don’t understand. Did something happen? Is it . . . Uncle Frank? Mom?” His chest tightened on the question.

“No.” Her voice emerged small and shattered. “It’s . . . Everything’s wrecked, Nathan. Everything.” The look she gave him unraveled him from the inside out.

“I can’t pretend anymore. It’s over.” Annalise swallowed hard and, with it, took out his heart. “It’s all over.”

Like a man with an addiction, Frank found himself on Helen’s doorstep, drawn to the light glowing inside as if it were calling him home.

Home.
He had the strangest sense of it as she opened the door and smiled at him, her expression so welcoming he might belong here in her kitchen. He sat propped on a stool, eating the last piece of pie, while she drained the potatoes to mash them. The entire house smelled tangy, of something sweet and yet hearty baking, and fresh bread on the counter could make his eyes roll back into his head.

If his partner saw him now, he’d turn Frank in for counseling. Rehab.

Except, well, he’d already overstayed his welcome in WitSec, and they’d been nudging him toward retirement for years now.

He could retire here. In Deep Haven or—

Frank nearly choked on his milk.

“Are you okay?” Helen wore blue oven mitts and a matching apron over jeans and a pretty lime-green blouse that did dangerous things to her eyes. Especially since they lit up, a sort of twinkle in them, when he smiled at her.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been the reason for a woman’s smile.

“Uh-huh,” he managed, sounding brilliant. “This pie is so good I nearly inhaled it.”

She set the pot back on the stove before dumping the potatoes from the colander into it. “So, what did you do today?” she asked as she added milk and butter to the potatoes. It felt like old times in the kitchen with Margaret. Comfortable. Right.

“Not much.” In fact, in addition to following Annalise around all day, he’d spent a good portion of time on the phone working on a new placement for her in eastern Tennessee. He’d found a town there once that felt much like this one, quaint and slower. Kind.

Annalise could become Carrie Ann Fuller, and if the rest of the family decided to follow, then they’d be Justin, Rosie, and Harlan. Nathan could be Nick or perhaps Thad. He liked that name; it meant “praise.” Something Frank would do if he could keep this family safe.

And Helen. Oh, Helen. He couldn’t think of a better name than Helen. “I have a feeling you spent most of the day cooking.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Make a grab for one of those rolls and you’ll pull back a nub.” She winked at him, returned to the potatoes, began to mash.

“Let me do that for you.” He slid off the stool and came around behind her to take the masher from her hand.

“Thank you.” When she stepped back, he wanted to kick himself for letting her get away so quickly.

He wanted to kiss her again. Couldn’t stop thinking about it, in fact—the way she’d felt in his arms, made him feel invincible. Young. Full of hope.

Maybe he could live in Tennessee. Helen Harrison . . . that wasn’t a terrible alibi.

Or maybe Boyd would catch Garcia and no one would have to leave.

“I think we need more milk,” Frank said as he put some muscle into the mashing. “And pepper.”

She stepped close and dropped in another pat of butter, shook in salt and pepper. He could smell her perfume, light and intoxicating, rising up around him.

He’d given a good amount of thought to Annalise’s suggestion that she simply disappear by herself. Maybe take the entire family on an extended vacation, under protection, until they caught Garcia. How long could that really take?

Years. Garcia was smooth, had contacts and an underground network. He could give them the slip for longer than they could afford to disappear.

No, either Frank moved all of them permanently or he faked Annalise’s death. Again.

“That looks about pulverized now, Frank.”

He looked down and indeed, the potatoes were milky; not a chunk remained. “Sorry.”

“I love them this way.” Helen put the top on the pot. “Would you mind pulling the roast out of the oven for me? It gets heavy with all that juice.” She handed him her oven mitts.

He had no doubt she had the strength to fetch the roast, but he liked puttering around her kitchen. Puttering around her life, really.

Setting the roasting pan on the counter, he lifted the lid. Inside simmered a trussed-up pork roast, a red glaze over the top.

“Those are lingonberries,” Helen said, pushing a thermometer into the roast. “Perfect. Put the cover back on and I’ll set the table before everyone gets here.”

“The family is coming for dinner?” It took him a while to catch on, but as she pulled out china from the hutch against the wall, he went to help.

“It’s been so long since we’ve eaten together—at least anything but popcorn at Colleen’s games. I thought it might be nice to have a real dinner. I left a message on Annalise’s cell phone today. I hope she didn’t cook anything.” She stood at the far end of the table. “Would you help me put the leaf in?”

He joined her, grabbing the other end of the table and giving it a tug. A little too hard. Helen lost her balance and nearly fell onto the chair behind her.

“Are you okay?”

She laughed, but it came out shaky as if the jolt had rattled her. “I’m fine. You’re just stronger than most of my other guests.”

Frank had the weird urge to become sixteen again and flex or something. Instead he lifted the dressy plates from the hutch and onto the table. He set them around while she went behind him, laying silverware and cloth napkins.

It felt very married couple. Very partnership. Very much like they could spend the rest of their lives setting the table, mashing potatoes, and laughing together.

He’d never met a woman who made him feel more like the man he wanted to be than Helen. At least since Margaret, and after a while, even she had stopped believing in him and simply given up.

Except . . . what if he did that to Helen? What if someday, after
being with him, the light went out of her smile, and nothing but a disappointed tweak of her mouth greeted him when he walked in the door?

Hello—he needed an intervention because that would happen the moment she discovered he wasn’t Annalise’s uncle Frank and was instead . . .

A liar. Pretender.

Playing games with her.

“Frank, are you okay?”

He looked up as she passed him a couple long taper candles and found a smile for her. “I’m fine. Where do these go?”

She handed him a pair of acorn-shaped holders. The phone rang as he wiggled the candles into place. He heard her answer.

“Oh . . . yes, uh . . . thank you for calling.”

The hitch in her voice made him look up. She met his eyes, and for a second he thought he read panic there. As if to confirm it, she turned her back to him.

“Mmm-hmm.” Helen’s hand shook as she picked up a wooden spoon and stirred a pot of simmering lingonberry sauce on the stove. “Right. Okay then. . . . Yes. I’ll be in tomorrow, first thing. Thank you.”

She hung up and set the phone on the counter. Didn’t turn around.

“Helen?” Frank didn’t like the clench of his gut, the feeling in the room. “Is everything okay?”

She nodded but still didn’t turn. He walked over to her as she picked up a towel from the counter and ran it across her eyes.

He didn’t know her that well, but he could recognize a lie when she said, “I’m fine. I’m just going to run across the street and get the kids. I’ll be right back.”

Then, just like all women could, she left him undone when she rose to her tiptoes and kissed him. Quick and sweet, a brush of hope—or perhaps desperation—against his lips.

He wanted to hold her there, to capture the moment, fading too fast. But she slipped away from him, grabbed her jacket and boots, and was out the door.

Frank watched her disappear across the lawn, then picked up her phone and scrolled through the incoming calls.

The number came with a name. He stared at it, the fist in his chest tightening.

Deep Haven Medical Clinic.

So he wasn’t the only one with something to hide.

Annalise stared at Nathan, unable to speak. She wanted to reach out and run her hands through his hair, pull herself into his arms, and just hold on, breathing in his smell.

How she’d miss his smell—the cologne he wore, mixed with the outdoorsy scent from so much time tromping around north shore properties. And the feel of his arms around her. How would she live without that?

She simply couldn’t bring herself to dismantle her world with her own hands, her own words.

She thought she’d erased all hint of Deidre, and yet, like a ghost from the past, her daughter had become the girl Annalise had left behind. Rebellious. Angry. Colleen acted like her clone at age sixteen, and Annalise didn’t have a clue how to stop it.

She had to leave, but not before she told them the truth. She cupped her hands over her face.

She hadn’t meant to let Nathan come home to find her like this—she’d wanted to hold it together at least one more night.

One more night to relish the second chance she’d been given.

“Honey, what’s the matter?” Nathan sat on the floor before her and took her hands, running his thumbs over them. “You’re scaring me a little.”

Nathan had such strong hands. The kind that could toss their children in the air and catch them on the way back down. The kind that could fix the leaky pipes under the sink and change the oil and rub her shoulders after a long day.

His hands made her feel safe.

She couldn’t bear to hold them. “I have to tell you something.” Annalise paused, listening to her own words to Colleen hammer in her head.
You haven’t a
clue
what it means to love someone. To commit to him for better or worse. To stand by him, to believe in him, to care more about him than you do yourself.
That’s. Love.

Nathan didn’t deserve this. But . . . but, oh, please, let him love her as he vowed. Please let him understand. She swallowed, pressed her hands together. “I’ve kept something from you.”

“What are you talking about? Are you doing something you shouldn’t? Did you overbuy at QVC or something?”

Oh yeah. She wished. Enough fuzzy slippers with the massage soles to last a lifetime. She almost burst out in hysterical laughter except for how horribly wrong he was.

And for the frown on his face. As if he was serious. The poor man had no idea of the magnitude of her deception. And that suddenly made her want to curl into a ball and weep.

She looked away, drew a breath. Closed her eyes.

Dug down for the facts and let them emerge without emotion.

“My name is Deidre O’Reilly. I’m not from Chicago but St. Louis. I moved here because I was—
am
—in the witness protection program.”

More silence.

She opened her eyes and found Nathan staring at her like he didn’t know her. What else did she expect?

Oh, she couldn’t do this.

“I testified against a drug dealer, Luis Garcia, who killed my best friend and who tried to murder me. My boyfriend worked for him, and when his boss found out I was working with the police, he came after me. At the trial Garcia vowed to kill me, even from jail. Frank had no choice but to fake my death and move me.” She paused for a breath. “Only my parents know I’m still alive.” Only that knowledge, and the hope that her mother still prayed for her, still thought about her, kept her grief safely in pocket. Sometimes she imagined she could even feel the prayers.

Nathan was still staring at her, his beautiful eyes cloudy with confusion.

Yes, Nathan, it’s the truth.

Then he swallowed. Cupped his hand to his forehead. In the dim light of the lamp, it seemed he actually paled. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.” He ran trembling hands down his face.

She had to give him points for staying calm because she wanted to scream.

“Let me get this straight. You are in the witness protection program?”

She nodded.

“And Frank. He is
not
your uncle?”

She shook her head. “He’s my relocation agent. I haven’t talked
to him for years. When I walked into the Java Cup a few days ago and saw him, I couldn’t believe it.”

“I don’t know why that gives me some kind of weird relief. But I guess my next question is, why is he here? And—it doesn’t have something to do with why you’re hiding, does it?” Nathan winced a little.

She longed to reach out, smooth the frown from between his eyes. Instead, she flicked moisture from her cheeks. “Yeah, well, that’s part of the problem. See, the guy I put in jail got out—”