Cold Hearts. Sharon SalaЧитать онлайн книгу.
Three
Will Porter was finishing breakfast and preparing for an early meeting at school. His wife, Rita, was sitting at the other end of the breakfast table nursing a cup of coffee spiked with a shot of the bourbon she’d gotten drunk on last night. It was all he could do to look at her these days. She was such a disappointment and hardly the wife he needed if he was going to get himself elected state superintendent of schools. His dreams were big, but Rita’s daily hangovers were bigger. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do about her, but he wasn’t going to let anything derail his aspirations to get out of this one-horse town.
When his cell phone rang, he was actually relieved. It saved him from having to tell her goodbye. Instead, he just waved at her as he stood up and walked away, talking as he went.
“This is Porter. Yes, Suzette. I’m on my way. What? Heard what?” He paused in the hall. “Really! That’s terrible. So is everyone there? Good, tell them I’m on my way.”
He dropped his phone in his pocket and reached for his briefcase just as Rita picked it up and handed it to him, tilting her cheek in a flirtatious manner.
“You almost forgot my goodbye kiss.”
“I didn’t forget anything,” Will said as he took the briefcase out of her hands.
She grabbed his coat sleeve. “Who was that on the phone? I heard you say something was terrible. What happened?”
“It was Suzette. She called to tell me the parents I’m supposed to meet with this morning are waiting on me, so turn loose of my sleeve, I need to go.”
Rita frowned. “What’s so terrible about that?”
“Oh, that. She said Paul Jackson was dead. Crushed by a car he was working on.”
Rita shrieked. “Oh, my God! That’s terrible! And he was such a sweet man.”
Will frowned. “Really? Did you fuck him when you were in school like you did Dick Phillips? Are you going to throw that in my face, too?”
Rita slapped his face.
He returned the slap and sent her reeling.
“There, now, if you needed an excuse to get shit-faced drunk again today, I just gave it to you.”
He walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Rita was still screaming obscenities as he drove away.
* * *
Gregory Standish was on his way to the bank when his cell phone rang. He glanced down at caller ID and frowned. He’d just sat through a silent breakfast with his wife and daughter, and now his wife wanted to talk. He gave a long-suffering sigh and answered.
“What is it, Gloria?”
“Gregory! I just heard the most terrible news,” she said. “Paul Jackson is dead. They found him crushed beneath a car this morning. There will be a funeral for sure, and I don’t have a thing to wear. Carly and I are going shopping in Summerton, so I won’t be home for lunch. You’ll have to pick something up in town.”
His heart skipped a beat. Those two were going to bankrupt him yet, and a bankrupt banker would never be mayor of Mystic. It was a small dream in comparison to some, but it was his, and every day his family’s spending habits drew him further away from realizing his goal.
“Don’t spend money, Gloria. I told you—we’re already strapped as it is.”
“Don’t be silly, Gregory. You’re president of the bank. You have plenty of money.”
He groaned as the line went dead in his ear.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, dropping the phone back in his pocket.
Now his stomach was in knots. Jackson’s death had given his wife had a new excuse for a shopping spree. He hadn’t seen that coming.
* * *
Mack pulled into the driveway and stopped beneath the carport, taking care to leave room for his dad’s truck, and the moment he thought that, he groaned. His dad wasn’t coming home. The knot in his belly grew tighter as he killed the engine. He grabbed his suitcase and headed for the house in slow, hesitant strides, reluctant to go inside. Today he’d been robbed of all he held dear.
When he unlocked the door and walked in, he was struck by the quiet familiarity of the house. How dare the world keep spinning when he was in free fall? He closed his eyes, and when he took a deep breath, he knew by the lingering scent of stale coffee and bacon grease what his dad had eaten for breakfast the day before. He dropped the suitcase by the door and turned the lock before going into the kitchen.
It was just as he suspected. An unwashed skillet was still on the stove, the bottom covered with congealed bacon grease, and the carafe in the coffeemaker was half-full. His dad would have reheated it last night and finished it off with his supper as he cleaned up, only last night he hadn’t gone home. He’d stayed to do a customer a favor, just as he’d done countless times before, but this time something had gone tragically wrong.
His hands were shaking as he poured the coffee down the sink and refilled the carafe. Once the coffee began to brew, he took his suitcase back to his room, tossed it on the bed and then turned around to hang up his jacket. As he did, his gaze went straight past the open door of his room to the one across the hall. How many times had he awakened at night as a kid and taken comfort from that open door, knowing his dad was so close? He had been convinced nothing could hurt him then because Dad would protect him from nighttime monsters. He’d known that as surely as he’d known his own name. And yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that a real monster had come and taken his father’s life.
As soon as he hung up his clothes, he went straight to the desk, found the name and phone number of the company that serviced the hydraulic lift, then texted it to Trey.
Next order of business was to call the employees. There were only two, and he was sorry for their circumstances, but as of today they were out of a job. The best he could do, if they wanted to move or make the daily drive to Summerton, was to offer them a job at his lumberyard. If not, they were on their own.
* * *
Betsy Jakes was making bread, and with her daughter, Trina, already at work, she had the house to herself. Kneading the dough was good therapy. The dough was a physical thing she could hold on to, which was vital for a woman losing her grip on reality. It was bad enough learning yet another of her friends was gone, but something else was happening that caused her concern.
She was losing track of time, and it had happened again this morning.
She had no memory of hanging up the phone or going to the kitchen after talking to Trey, no memory of gathering up the ingredients to bake, and yet here she was, making bread. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, along with the bitter taste of bile. She was on the verge of throwing up but afraid if she gave in to the feeling something terrible would happen, so she kept working the dough with slow, rhythmic movements, pushing out air bubbles with each downward thrust from the heel of her hand.
She was elbow-deep in flour and yeast, the radio playing loudly enough in the background that she didn’t hear Dallas’s car as she pulled up outside.
* * *
Dallas drove around to the back of the house. After Trey’s concern about his mother’s state of mind, she was anxious as to what she might find. She got out on the run, peered through the window in the back door and saw Betsy at the cabinet. Relieved that she seemed to be doing okay, Dallas tried the door. It was unlocked. Instead of knocking, she opened it.
“Knock, knock,” she said, standing on the threshold holding a carton of eggs and waiting for an invitation.
Betsy was smiling as she turned around. “Come in, sugar! It’s good to see you!” Flour flew in every direction as Betsy lifted her hand to wave, and