Fences: Smith Mountain Lake Series - Book Three Page 8

  18

  Jillie

  THE MORNING STARTS off much as the night ended.

  Kala isn’t talking, and Corey tags along behind her like a contrite puppy seeking forgiveness, even though she has no idea what she did wrong.

  I’ve just dropped them off at school when my cell phone rings. I stop behind a bus waiting to pull out onto the main road and pick it up.

  “Hey, Jillie, it’s Linda Saunders. Lucille gave me your number. Hope that was all right.”

  Linda and I are in the same women’s group at church. She’s an emergency-room nurse at the hospital, and while we aren’t exactly friends, we’ve had a few conversations over coffee. “Of course,” I say.

  “You can do with this what you want, but we had a patient brought in this morning. I think you know him. Tate Callahan?”

  I sit back in my seat, surprise knocking the breath from me. “Yes. What happened?”

  “He’s been beaten up pretty badly. A cracked shoulder. Lot of bruises.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “I think he will be. But he’s been admitted. He said there wasn’t anyone to call. I remembered that you two were good friends growing up. I just thought—”

  “Thank you, Linda,” I say. “I appreciate you calling.”

  “Sure,” she says. “See you soon.”

  I click off the phone, wondering what I’m supposed to do with this. A car behind me honks. I glance up. The bus has disappeared. I drive on.

  A quarter mile or so and I pull over, leaning my head on the steering wheel.

  Someone beat up Tate? I have no idea what to think of this, much less what to do, if anything.

  What good would it do for me to see him? We aren’t a part of each other’s lives anymore.

  There wasn’t anyone to call.

  Linda’s words echo back. Tate has no real family. Maybe we don’t know each other anymore. But we did once, and shouldn’t that count for something?

  19

  Tate

  I OPEN MY eyes to the glare of a fluorescent light. I stare up at it, trying to figure out where I am.

  The answer hits me at the same time that awareness of pain steamrolls over me. Everything hurts. I can’t differentiate between the locations, as if my body is under assault from one huge, pounding ache.

  “Hey.”

  I jerk my gaze to the side of the bed. Jillie. I close my eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” she says.

  I force myself to look at her again. “What time is it?”

  “One-thirty.”

  “How did I—”

  “They said the rescue squad brought you in. That you’d been beaten up.”

  Memory hits then. The alley. The three guys taking me down. I suppress a groan. “You didn’t have to come here.”

  “No, I didn’t,” she says.

  There is something of the old Jillie in her voice, and I make an effort to bring her into focus. She stands, pours me a cup of water from the plastic pitcher on the table next to the bed. I try to reach for it, dropping back onto the pillow as another wave of pain assaults me.

  “Here,” she says. “Let me help.” She puts her hand behind my head, brings the cup to my lips.

  The water tastes like heaven. I swallow several times, then lie back on the pillow. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you uncomfortable?”

  “A little,” I say. Actually, it feels as if I have a knife embedded in too many parts of my body to count.

  Something of that must have shown on my face because she says, “I’ll be right back.”

  She returns a couple of minutes later with a pleasant-faced nurse who clucks and says, “You should have pushed your call button, Mr. Callahan. No sense in lying here miserable. I’ll fix you right up.”

  She picks up my IV tubing, inserts a syringe, and injects medication into the line, “You should feel better in a few minutes.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  “You call me when you need me, okay? My name’s on the board there. Mrs. Walters.”

  She leaves the room in a hurry, as if she knows she’s needed elsewhere. I lie still, the drug like a blanket cloaking me in comfort.

  Jillie stands by the window, her back to me, arms folded.

  “Jillie.”

  She turns and looks at me.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  20

  Jillie

  THE GIRLS HAVE dance class on Wednesday afternoons, so I won’t be picking them up until five.

  Tate has been asleep for two-and-a-half hours. Hospital sounds echo in the hallway, carts rolling by, nurses speaking in soft voices. I sit in a chair next to the bed and listen to him breathe, watch him with the luxury of being able to take my fill.

  There are lines on his face where there had once been none, but they add character, something I somehow knew, when we were kids, that age would bring to his appearance. He is lean and muscled, his dark-brown hair short, the way he wore it as a boy, too impatient to do anything more than run a comb through it.

  A bruise has begun to sprout beneath his left eye, blue black. Large, white bandages cover both his hands and his right forearm, dried blood visible at the edges. Evidence of fighting back, which, of course, he would.

  I want to put my hand over his, draw out the pain that must surely burn there. I think of how once I would have done exactly that.

  With this thought, I stand abruptly, walk to the window, and stare out at the parking lot below. A group of doctors in white coats cross the sidewalk, disappearing inside the building. Maybe I should go. Maybe staying isn’t a good idea.

  “You’re still here.”

  I jump at his voice, turn to find him studying me through serious eyes.

  I cross back to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  “Good.” I hesitate, awkward. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Thanks,” he says. “I’m fine.”

  I sit down in the chair, my legs feeling as if I’ve just climbed a dozen flights of stairs. “Who did this, Tate?”

  He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  I try not to look disapproving. “How can it not matter?”

  “It doesn’t matter for now.”

  “You do know. Have you told the police?”

  “Only that I didn’t know who they were.”

  “Is that true?”

  He doesn’t answer me, as if he doesn’t want to put voice to the lie.

  “You never were any good at letting someone help you.”

  “I don’t need help with this one,” he says.

  “They’re not worth the effort. They put you in the hospital, Tate. Let the police take care of it.”

  He’s quiet for a long string of moments, before he says, “Life has a way of eventually dealing any cards that need to be dealt. And besides I doubt they’re feeling so great right now, either.” A hint of a smile touches his mouth. “I gave as good as I got.”

  “I don’t doubt that a bit.”

  21

  Tate

  LONG AFTER JILLIE leaves, I stare at the ceiling, the drug from earlier having worn off enough that I feel the throb of pain in a half-dozen different places.

  Without Jillie’s presence, the room feels like what it is, a strange place where I am alone.

  It’s not as if I don’t know the feeling. Most of my life, I’ve been exactly that. I wonder what it would be like to have family to call, people who would come by and bring chocolate chip cookies and extra clothes.

  For me, that would have once been Jillie.

  Ironic that she had been the only person here today.

  I glance down at my bandage-covered hands. Realize I haven’t even considered what this means for my book deadline.

  Todd is the same blockhead he’d been during school, but that doesn’t make it any easier to take his insults.

  I don’t care what ot
her people think. As long as I know the truth, what difference does it make?

  But then, all it takes is one sleazy article in a sleazy tabloid, and people start seeing you through someone else’s lense.

  I left this place with other peoples’ lies settling like a fog around me, through which no one cared to look for the truth. I realize suddenly that in leaving, maybe I validated those lies.

  I’m awake for a long time after the lights in the hall are dimmed and the nurses’ voices lower to whispers. I think about the fact that I’d driven down here with the intention of confronting Jillie about the article and then getting the hell back out again.

  But something is suddenly too clear to ignore. I’m not leaving this place again until it’s on my own terms. Before I go, I will know the truth about what happened all those years ago. And so will everyone else.

  22

  Jillie

  AFTER I TAKE Kala and Corey to school the next morning, I tell myself there is no point in going back to the hospital. Tate has everything he needs. What can I really do?

  This does not explain then why I am turning into the hospital parking lot a few minutes later, or why I make my way through the double glass doors and take the elevator to his room.

  I knock at the door. When there is no answer, I stick my head inside.

  The bed is empty. Before I can weigh the significance of that, the bathroom door opens, and Tate steps out, freshly shaved, his wet hair combed back from his ridiculously good-looking face.

  He glances up, looking more than a little surprised to see me. “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say, feeling awkward. “How are you?”

  “I’ll live.”

  “Improved, I take it.”

  He looks at me for a moment and says, “You didn’t have to come back.”

  I lift a shoulder. “I know.”

  “I’m sure you have plenty of other things to do. Children and all.”

  I wish I could say yes, my day is planned to the minute, chock full of meaningful events, one right after the other. But the next meaningful thing on my list will be picking up Kala and Corey at three o’clock. “I thought you might need a ride back to your car. Although, I guess you won’t be driving with your hands like that.”

  “No,” he says. “I guess I won’t. Not for a few days anyway.”

  The door opens, and the same nurse from yesterday bustles in. “I see you’re all ready to go, Mr. Callahan. And someone here to pick you up at that.”

  Tate looks at me.

  “Yes,” I say.

  The nurse rolls a wheelchair inside. “If you’re ready then, I’ll chauffeur you downstairs.”

  “I’ll be fine to walk,” he says.

  “Hospital policy,” she says, patting the chair.

  He obliges with obvious reluctance. Downstairs, I pull the car up to the front door where the smiling nurse waits with Tate. She insists on helping him into the passenger side and also assisting with his seat belt, then wishes us both a good day.

  I get back inside, start the Mercedes. It is only then that I realize I have no idea where we are going. “Your destination?”

  He looks at me for a moment, acknowledges the cheekiness in my voice with a raised eyebrow. “Name a respectable Realtor,” he says.

  I blink, showing my confusion. “Realtor?”

  “There’s an agency off North Main, isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” I say, “but the better one’s just outside of town. Morgan’s.”

  “You can drop me there then.”

  Now that I’ve had a moment, I do an admirable job of blanking my face of curiosity and not questioning his destination. We’re there in ten minutes of talk-free driving, pulling into the small lot where I park beside a black Range Rover.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Tate says, looking at me.

  “Do you want me to wait?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “I’ll get a taxi back to the hotel.”

  “They’re not that easy to come by around here.”

  “Yeah. I’ll ask someone for a ride.”

  I nod, as if this is fine with me. Which it is, of course. Why shouldn’t it be? “Ask for Ann Morgan, if you want to see an agent.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I will.”

  He tries to open the car door, and we realize, at the same time, he’s going to need some help. I get out and go around, open it for him. He steps onto the pavement, looking more than a little bothered by his ineptitude.

  “Thanks,” he says. “For everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, wondering if this is goodbye then.

  He gives me a long look, and I take a step back, not sure what to do with it. A too-lengthy pause hangs between us, and then I say, “Okay. Take care.”

  I walk back to the driver’s side, slide in, and close the door. I start the car, swallow hard. I look up to find him standing in front of the hood.

  “Wait,” he says.

  I lower the window. He walks around. “I thought I’d look for a place,” he says.

  “A place?” I repeat.

  “To live. For a while.”

  “Oh.” No explanation for the sudden tripping of my heart. “Here?”

  “Here. I could use an expert local opinion,” he says.

  “Ann is very good,” I say, trying to recover my equilibrium.

  “From you,” he says.

  “From me?”

  “If you have time.”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” I say, certain I am right.

  “Probably not. But there aren’t any strings attached.”

  “Oh. Well. Then.” I have no idea what to make of this, and so I get out, lead the way inside.

  Ann Morgan is talking to the receptionist at the front desk when we walk into the waiting area. She’s a single mom with a daughter in Corey’s class. We’re both room mothers for class parties and such.

  “Jillie,” she says, spotting me. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

  I step aside and wave a hand in Tate’s direction. “Brought you a client,” I say.

  She redirects her gaze to Tate, her green eyes instantly lighting up with appreciation. “Have you now?”

  “Tate Callahan,” he says, lifting both hands in the air. “I’d shake, but—”

  “But,” she says. Ann grew up in South Carolina, and her accent is soft and rounded at the edges. “Goodness gracious. What happened to you?”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says.

  “Good thing,” Ann says, touching a hand to my shoulder, perceptive enough not to ask more. “What can I help you two with?”

  She says “you two” with a question in her voice, and I know she is wondering whether he’s mine or if he’s fair game. “Tate is looking for a place to live.”

  Ann aims her laser-whitened smile at him. “Rent or buy?”

  “Depends on the place,” he says.

  “Wait a minute.” Ann puts a finger under her chin, stares hard at him.

  “You’re the writer! I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you. I just saw your picture somewhere—” She stops, visibly searching her memory. “Oh, and did you know we have another writer here at the lake? Bowie Dare. He married Keegan Monroe. You know them, don’t you, Jillie?”

  “Yes, we’ve met,” I say.

  “I’m sure you two would have lots in common,” Ann redirects to Tate.

  His voice is polite when he says, “Do you have anything you could show me?”

  “I certainly do,” Ann says, popping into gear as if aware she has again approached a line it would be better not to cross. “Can you look now?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Jillie?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Now is good.”

  23

  Jillie

  ANN DRIVES US all over the county, the diesel engine of her Mercedes so loud that we have to raise our voices to be heard above it.

  Tate is in front, and I’m in the back, after insisting I wil
l ride there. It’s an interesting vantage point from which to watch Ann’s increasingly flirtatious banter with this man who is the odd combination of the known and unknown to me. I can almost predict his response to her promptings, and it is a little shocking to realize I am still that tuned in to him.

  We’ve hit hour number three of our Smith Mountain Lake real estate tour, when Ann pulls into a slot at Pinkins, one of the few drive-ins left in the region. This one has been around since 1954, still serves hot dogs, French fries, and frozen lemonade, irreverent of anything so impractical as cholesterol and triglycerides. The owner, Darryl Pinkins, likes to tout to naysayers that he’s been eating the food for more than fifty years, and he’s still here. I suppose he has a point.

  A teenage waitress in pigtails comes out to ask what we’d like. We each order a lemonade, then sit sipping it while Ann flips through the MLS house listings, and I try not to think about the times Tate and I sat in this same parking lot in my dad’s old Chevrolet truck, talking about our future. I wonder if he remembers.

  “I think I’ve shown you just about everything that seems suitable for a single guy,” Ann says, emphasis on single. She’s starting to sound a little doubtful of her ability to find what he’s looking for. But then, in all fairness, I don’t think he’s actually said what that is. I’m wondering myself.

  The chunky book of listings sits on the console between them. Ann flips through it with her right hand, straw between her red-lipsticked lips.

  “And you really didn’t care for the Pacer place on Harbor Road?”

  “I’d like a little more space around the house,” he says.

  “Um,” she murmurs, still flipping pages. She stops at one, pokes a finger at a photo. “Well, here’s something with space. What about the old Mason place?”

  Tate leans over, studies the picture. She’s talking about Cross Country, of course. I sit back, wait for Tate to nix it. I can tell by Ann’s expression, she’s expecting the same. Only he surprises us both. He asks about the price. She tells him, the number tossed out in a pretty-ridiculous-huh tone of voice.