sawdust and dirt.
But that was dumb. His hands were always dirty. The days when he spent all his money on designer suits and weekly manicures were long gone and unlamented.
“Hi, Nora,” he said. “I was going to call you again later.”
“Logan.”
She held out her hand, and he took it. It had been six months, and yet he knew to brace himself for the little electric jolt. She felt it, too, he could tell, though she had always been polished at covering it.
“I came to talk about Sean. To apologize, first of all. He told me what happened this afternoon. He said he did a lot of damage.”
“Not so much. He busted up a couple of enclosures. Nothing we can’t fix.”
Logan was amused to see Vic nodding vigorously, although an hour ago the manager had been ready to wring Sean Archer’s neck with his bare hands. That was the effect Nora Archer had on people. Male or female, young or old, one look into those wistful hazel eyes, and they wanted to don armor and jump on a white horse.
She let go of his hand quickly, then gazed around, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Did he—were there birds in any of the enclosures?”
“The screening wasn’t finished yet. It was just bare boards, really. Don’t worry, Nora. He hurt stuff, nothing living.”
She smiled, still sad but clearly grateful, then turned to Vic. “He tells me you were disturbed about the bird he brought with him. He thinks you believe he killed it.”
“Well, I—” Vic looked uncomfortable. “I couldn’t be sure. It was dead by the time I got here, and he was kind of going nuts, breaking boards and—”
“I can see why you were worried,” she said. “I was worried, too. But I’ve talked to Sean about it, and he told me everything. I’m convinced he’s telling the truth about that part. He simply doesn’t have that kind of brutality in him.”
Vic didn’t look quite as sure, but when he opened his mouth to respond, Johnny Cash’s voice suddenly growled out of his back pocket, promising in his rumbling baritone that he found it very, very easy to be true.
Max squawked, disliking the sound instinctively, and Nora’s eyes widened.
As the manager dug hurriedly in his back pocket, Logan chuckled. “Vic’s cell phone,” he explained. “That must be the new ringtone Gretchen put on it. That’s not the one that means the baby’s coming, is it?”
Vic shook his head. “No. That one’s ‘Stop, In the Name of Love.’ Johnny Cash is the get-your-ass-home-for-dinner ringtone.” He clicked the answer button. “Sorry, honey. I know what I said. I’m leaving right now. Yes, right now. No, not five minutes from now. Right now.”
Logan pointed at the clinic parking lot, urging the other man to get going. With an apologetic smile and a wave to Nora, Vic loped off toward his truck, keeping his wife updated on every step he took. “I’m ten feet from the truck, honey…”
The few seconds after Vic’s departure were subtly awkward. Nora stood in a ray of sunshine that poured in dappled blobs of honey through the oak branches. Logan stood stiffly by the broken wood, in the shadow of the hawk enclosure, surrounded by busted planks and tools.
Well, of course it was awkward. It was the first time he had been alone with her in about nine months. It was, in fact, only the second time he’d ever been alone with her in his life.
The first time had been at Trent and Susannah’s peach party, last summer. They’d had…what…five minutes alone together in the pole shed? Other than that, their encounters had all been casual, public, superficial. The same politely chatting circle at a cocktail party. Nearby tables at a busy café. Two customers apart in the checkout line at the grocery store. Four rows down at the city council meeting.
Funny how you could fool yourself, he thought, watching her scratch an imaginary itch at her throat, then fidget with the neckline of her creamy blouse. The truth was, he hardly knew her. And yet…
“I know you’re busy,” she said. “I won’t take up too much of your time. But I wanted to talk about Sean. I’d like to know what he can do to make this up to you.”
“Nothing.” He shook his head firmly. “That’s not necessary. Let’s forget it, okay? I know he’s had a hard time this past year.”
“Yes. That’s true.” She swallowed. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about it. I guess everyone has.”
He couldn’t deny it. Eastcreek was a typical small Texas town. People talked. And when they had something juicy to talk about, like the fact that one of its social pillars, Harrison Archer, had gone stark raving mad and tried to kill two people, they buzzed like hornets.
Logan wasn’t a fan of gossip. He and Rebecca and Ben had been the subject of enough of it for him to know how little it captured of the real truth. But he couldn’t help himself. He had wanted to know. He’d wanted to understand more about that wildly mismatched Archer marriage, so he’d listened.
“I heard. I discounted about half of it, though.” He smiled. “I’ve been here long enough to know that Texans are just as good at embellishing as they are back in Maine.”
“In this case, half is bad enough.” She moved a little closer to Max’s cage, as if she didn’t want to meet Logan’s eyes while she talked. The hawk, who had been preening his wing, paused briefly, then apparently decided she wasn’t a threat and went back to work.
“The basic facts are true. Harrison did threaten to kill Trent and Susannah. He lured Trent out to Green Fern Pond, so that he could shoot him, and when Susannah found them, Harrison held them both at gunpoint. But I don’t think he would have done it, even if Sean…even if Sean hadn’t stopped him. I really don’t.”
She looked back at Logan, her fingertips hooked into the wire screening. “Of course, I don’t know for sure. He was very sick, and he was in a lot of pain. He had been for a long time.”
He knew she didn’t mean physical pain, although that had probably played its part. Pancreatic cancer wasn’t a merciful disease. But the pain that had truly destroyed Harrison Archer wasn’t the physical kind. It was emotional, and it had apparently eaten away his soul, his conscience and his common sense.
Logan knew he ought to stop her from going on. He didn’t have any comfort to offer in return for her confessional. And she didn’t need to lay out the details of her private tragedy, like an offering on the altar, buying his forgiveness for Sean.
He’d already forgiven the poor, unlucky kid, for what that was worth.
“You probably know that Harrison blamed Trent for his first son’s death.” She turned her head back toward the enclosure. Her auburn curls slid across her breastbone, the tips catching the sunlight. “He never got over Paul’s death. Not even… Not even after Sean and Harry.”
Though many people found that part of the story perplexing, Logan had always sort of understood. The first-born, the miracle, the child of your dreams. You might love again—in fact, humans were probably hardwired to love something, anything, just to survive—but you’d never love like that a second time. Never with your heart wide open, just asking to be smashed to bits.
