Jar Of Dreams Part 7

Lucy opened the car door again, setting the bottle of half and half on the pa.s.senger seat. After a few seconds of dithering, she got in and started the car. And smelled it again.

Oh, Lord. The van had twelve years and nearly three hundred thousand miles to its credit-it could be anything. She turned off the engine and got out, going around to open the hood and peer at what was under it. Like she would know if there was something wrong. The car either ran or it didn't, and it had been running like an antique charm since Sims went over it after it died on Lucy's first day in Taft.

Boone. He'd know what to do. He'd know if it was safe to start the car again. She wouldn't let him drive it, but she was certain he was mechanically superior to her. She reached for her cell phone. And stopped. It was all her imagination. Surely it was.

Jack rode his bicycle past the alley at the end of the block and Lucy waved frantically. He was a teenager-he'd know, wouldn't he? But he didn't see her and kept going, disappearing when he'd pa.s.sed the alley.

She smelled it again and this time she dialed Boone's number. "I hate to sound like an idiot," she said when he answered, "but I'm over here behind Down at Jenny's and I smell something funny."

He laughed. "Well, don't tell Jenny."

"No, really." She was close to tears. "I don't know if it's my car or what, but it smells like something's burning and I can't find it." Her voice rose and she heard hysteria in it when she repeated, "I can't find it, Boone."

She must not have been the only one to hear the sound of panic, because he said, "I'll be right there," and hung up.

Lucy stood in the middle of the alley, undecided on what to do. She could wait for Boone, but she was blocking the alley. If someone wanted to come through, she'd need to move her car and she was afraid to start it.

Then she saw it. The thin curl of smoke came from under the crooked lid of a galvanized trash can. The rack of cans sat near the small storage building behind Down at Jenny's.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, G.o.d."

She fumbled with the phone as tendrils of flame began to lick from under the lid, reaching for the wood trim around the window on the building. What was in there? What if it was cooking oil or aerosol cans? Oh, please, oh, please... She dialed 911. Was that right? Was that where you called on a cell phone or was it another number? She couldn't remember. "Oh, G.o.d," she said again. "Please." Oh, she hated the smell of smoke. Hated it. Nausea pushed at her throat and she swallowed hard once. And again.

She headed toward the building. "There's a trash fire behind Down at Jenny's," she said when the dispatcher answered the phone. "The flames are in a can but they're getting out. They're getting out. What if-"

"Don't approach it," warned the dispatcher, her voice soothing. "Someone will be there in a few minutes-they're already out. Is the way blocked?"

"Yes, but I can-" Boone was coming up the alley at a dead run with Crockett on his heels, and she felt the blood rushing around in her veins-it was as though she could actually hear it. "I'll unblock it," she said, although she was pretty sure she couldn't move at all. "Do I need to stay..."

She saw Boone and Crockett pull the garbage can rack away from the building, and she heard noise, lots of noise, but darkness was coming in from somewhere. Darkness and cold and the d.a.m.n nausea, and she tried to fight all three sensations. Something would happen if she gave in to them. Oh, G.o.d, something would happen to Boone.

"Boone?" She tried to shout, because he might get burned-he might die, for G.o.d's sake-but she couldn't make her voice work. "Boone?"

"Hush." It was his voice close to her ear, his arms drawing her close. "It's okay. Don't cry, Lucy. It's okay."

"Whisht, Lucy John, whisht, 'tis all right."

Johnny Dolan's voice mingled with Boone's in her fading consciousness. "Boone?" she said faintly. "I didn't-"

And then the darkness won.

"It's Cats and Micah gave me the tickets-another one of those perks I get for letting him try out the new strip in the Trib. I hope he doesn't figure out he's the one doing the favor, not me. It'll be a real date, so I'm expecting you to comb your hair and wear one of those sundresses that show your knees." Boone did his best to keep his features innocent. "I don't know what it is about your knees, but I really like them. If you wear makeup, I'll spring for dessert when we have dinner before the play."

"Do they serve dessert at McDonald's?" Lucy asked.

"They certainly do. Ice cream sundaes and turnovers. But we're going to the restaurant next door to the theater. Will you go?" He smiled at her. "I was kidding, Lucy. You can wear anything you want and I don't care at all if you comb your hair or wear makeup and you can have all the dessert you want."

"What if I faint on you again?" Her cheeks were pink with embarra.s.sment, and he had to stop himself from putting his arms around her. Kelly was in the sunroom talking to Gert and Crockett, and she'd undoubtedly have some remark to make that he didn't want to hear.

"It's okay with me," he a.s.sured Lucy. "I get to be the hero when I catch you. It's just way cool. Plus, there's the part where I've probably already spilled something on you, so I'd appreciate the opportunity to gain good guy points."

"Okay." She sounded uncertain, but her eyes smiled at him. "I'd like to go."

"Good. I'll pick you up at six."

Her eyebrows rose, disappearing into a froth of sun-streaked bangs. "Pick me up? As in, you're going to stop by the second floor on your way downstairs?"

"Well, hey, at least I'll be on time. I've heard punctuality is an admirable quality." Unfortunately, it had never been one of his. It ranked right up there with his driving, but there was no need to admit that to her. At least, not until he was too late to talk his way out of something.

"Then I should probably shower. And you'd rather I didn't wear an ap.r.o.n, right?"

"Nah, an ap.r.o.n would be good."

Even after she'd disappeared around the landing going upstairs, that little comment gave him all kinds of visions and thoughts, most of which would get his mind washed out with soap if Gert knew about them and could find a way to do it.

When Boone had changed into slacks and a shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, he went into the sunroom. "Lucy and I are going to a play at the community theater over at Lawrenceburg," he told his aunt. "Will you and Sims be okay here?"

"Of course. Noah will help me get him to bed." Gert sighed.

"Sure." Crockett grinned. "If he gets mouthy, I'll threaten to pray over him for a long time. He thinks that's a real failing of clergy, especially Catholics-that we don't know when to shut up."

"He has a point," Kelly said acidly, coming into the kitchen with a stack of tablecloths. She ignored Crockett's frown. "You might want to call ahead, Boone," she added. "Warn them that Pyro Lucy's going to be in the theater."

"And you might want to find a new song to sing, because I'm getting really sick of hearing that one," Boone said evenly. "As far as I can recall, I haven't interfered with your life since we were in high school. It's time for you to return that favor."

"You must admit it was odd the fire chose the very moment she was in the alley to start, especially since we know it was arson. There was no spontaneous combustion involved." She met his gaze defiantly. "I'm afraid you'll get hurt."

"That's not really a concern anymore," he said quietly. "You have to feel things before they can hurt you. So leave it alone, Kelly, and leave Lucy alone, too. And, while you're at it, maybe you should leave me alone too." He avoided her gaze, not wanting to see the hurt he knew would be in her eyes. Even if she deserved it, he didn't like causing it.

He thought of Maggie, closing his eyes so he could see her face in his mind. Boone, honey, I have such a headache. The pain nearly brought him to his knees. He breathed slow and deep so he wouldn't sound as though he was gasping for air. So much for not feeling things. But that was how the grief process went, wasn't it? One step forward and two steps back. d.a.m.n it. Maybe it was four steps back.

He met Crockett's eyes. The other man's gaze was inscrutable, and Boone wished for the hundredth time since he'd been home that their friendship could find its old easy footing.

"You kids have fun." Crockett turned his attention to the newspaper on the table. "I'll sneak down and let you in if Aunt Gert locks you out."

Lucy came down the stairs in a black and white dress, her b.u.t.terscotch hair flat-ironed into sleek submission and her freckles semi-covered with a dusting of something a little sparkly. She wore strappy high-heeled sandals and her toenails were polished. Her fingernails were, too, but they were bitten down so short the shiny varnish was almost invisible.

Boone smiled. Her knees were showing, and he hadn't been kidding-he really did like them a lot. "Wow."

"Thank you. Why don't you let me drive?"

A snort of laughter came from the sunroom, and Boone scowled in that direction before handing her his keys. "I feel like an alcoholic. Do you know where we're going?"

"Uh-huh." She waved at the others and followed Boone through the house.

"I can't believe I'm letting a girl drive on a date," he complained, opening the door for her.

"If you let the girl drive," she suggested brightly, "it gives you a better chance at a second date. She's much more likely to say yes if she hasn't actually ridden with you."

"You've ridden with me before, although I don't recall you opening your eyes. And this is our third date," he reminded her, "and that's only if you don't count working together at the gas station, delivering pies, and walking to church. If you count those as dates, we've had lots of them."

"We need to be careful about that, too," she said, getting into the Jeep on the driver's side. The maneuver showed enough of her right leg that Boone enjoyed a little pulse quickening as he settled into the pa.s.senger seat. "Landy Walker says if you go to church together in Taft, it's no time till the whole town has you engaged."

He grinned. "That's about the truth of it too."

Lucy blushed. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to suggest-"

"Lighten up, Lucy. We're grownups. We don't have to worry about being engaged until we've gone out four or five times. Unless we've gone out that many times and gone to church together. Then it becomes a concern. We might have to schedule counseling with Eli, although how a man with nine kids can counsel anyone is beyond me."

She laughed. "Okay. I'll hold you to that."

In the restaurant, they talked through the first two courses, and Boone was once again amazed at how comfortable he was with her. He even talked about his parents, which he hardly ever did with anyone other than family. None of his friends had known them, and though most were sympathetic, they couldn't relate to the devastation of losing your parents when you're twelve.

"I'm like my dad," he said. "Sometimes Kelly will give a little gasp, and I'll know I've said or done something that's like what she remembers. She, on the other hand, has my mom's face, figure, even her hands. Her voice sounds like Mom's did, and I like to hear it. That's when she's not mad at anyone, which I'll admit doesn't happen often."

"How did you find out what had happened to them?" Sympathy softened Lucy's voice.

"It was so strange. Dad and Mom had date nights every Sat.u.r.day night. Usually it was nothing big. They went to movies or bowled or just ate somewhere that didn't have a drive-through. The next-door neighbors were always on call, but Kelly and I had stayed by ourselves on those nights for at least a year. That week-it was in February and cold-Mom was antsy about leaving us, so they drove us all the way to Taft, a couple of hours away, and left us with Uncle Mike and Aunt Gert. Then they spent Sat.u.r.day night in a bed and breakfast. They called to tell us goodnight. They were having such a good time." He stopped, turning his water gla.s.s round and round on the table. "The phone rang the next morning while we were getting ready for church. The car in the opposite lane had lost control on black ice and hit them head-on. They died instantly."

"Oh." She touched his hand. "I'm so sorry."

"It was almost like they knew something would be different. Dad had kissed me goodbye, for one thing, and I was twelve-I didn't want anyone kissing me, much less my father. What if my friends saw it? I remember Kelly started screaming before Uncle Mike even got the words out to tell us. She screamed and screamed until she didn't have any voice left, and Aunt Gert sat and rocked her all that day. A doctor came and gave her a sedative-I think he gave me one, too-but Aunt Gert wouldn't let her go. She just stayed in that chair that's still in the kitchen and rocked her."

Lucy's eyes glistened, dampness clinging to her lower lashes. "It must have been so awful for all of you. It changed my childhood that Mama died when I was so little, but it didn't end it. I doubt Kelly was ever really a little girl again. And you weren't really twelve, either, were you?"

"We grew up faster in some ways, that's for sure. What about you?" Boone smiled at her, trying to dispel the lingering sadness. "Tell me about your dad."

"He came straight from Ireland when he was eighteen." Lucy's green eyes were dreamy. "And he never lost the brogue-even a little bit. When I hear someone from Ireland talk, I still listen for the same inflections I remember."

"So, was your restaurant Irish food?"

She laughed. "No, pure American diner, except for a dessert, sticky toffee pudding, which I guess is English, but Dad swore was Irish. We have it in the tearoom every few weeks. Oh, and Guinness stew. Dad said it was different here because the Guinness is different, but it's still good. I should make that one of these days."

The waiter refilled their coffee cups, and even though Boone had told himself he'd mind his own business, the question slipped out both unexpected and unintended. "What happened to the restaurant, Lucy?" He wished the words back immediately. "I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that."

She picked up her cup, then set it down with the coffee untasted and stared at a point somewhere past him. "We lived above it, and, like I told you before, sometimes Dad went down at night and cooked. I always woke up, and could get him to go back to bed. He was a very safe cook, even after he got sick. We had more fire extinguishers than was required, an up-to-date sprinkler system, and state of the art ovens, grill, and cook top. Our smoke alarm system was hard-wired and monitored by the company that had installed it. Plus Dad was just so d.a.m.n careful."

Her eyes were dry, but her face was pasty white underneath the dusting of freckles and glittery powder. Boone reached for her hand. "You don't have to talk about this. It's not my business."

"Well, you know," she said, "in a way it is. I know you love Gert, and that whole thing with the trash fire today makes me seem like a complete idiot in addition to a probable arsonist, so I think maybe you and your sister do have a right to know."

She took a drink of coffee and a deep breath and went on, "That particular night, I heard Dad go downstairs, and I lay there for a few minutes-actually it was four minutes-it's amazing how digital clocks can make expert witnesses out of people, isn't it? I was so tired that I didn't want to get up, but I did. I smelled the smoke and heard the alarm on the way down the stairs." She shook her head. "The fire had started in the dining room, not the kitchen, and Dad had walked right into it. He was just inside the door, and I dragged him outside before I even called 911, but it was already too late."

"Oh, G.o.d." He held onto her hand, and her gaze. "What happened?"

"The restaurant was non-smoking by then, but there were still a few who remembered the old days and would light up if they thought no one would notice-especially if it was nearly closing time and there weren't a lot of customers. Only thing was, there weren't any ashtrays, so they'd put their cigarettes out on the floor under the tables if they saw someone coming. This time, as nearly as the investigators could figure, someone hadn't put his or hers out at all, just kicked it back against the banquette."

"How long did it take for them to figure out what happened?"

Her expression was tortured and her voice sounded strangled when she continued, "They thought it was me at first, you know? They thought I'd become so frustrated trying to take care of Dad and the business that I'd snapped and set the whole thing up. They had it all figured out how I'd done it, right down to sabotaging the smoke alarms and the sprinklers in the dining room not containing the smoke. After his funeral, they came to the motel where I was staying and told me not to go anywhere because I was a 'person of interest' in the investigation."

Boone felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. He remembered telling Kelly today, You have to feel things before they can hurt you. What a pompous-a.s.sed remark to make, because he'd felt a lot of things within the last couple of hours.

"It didn't last long. They knew within a few weeks what had happened, but I still felt as though everyone thought I'd started the fire and killed my father. The press had written investigative stories that, while they didn't actually point fingers, made people wonder what had really happened that night in Dolan's." She shrugged. "There was enough insurance to cover most debt, but not to rebuild, though I still own the property. The staff all got jobs-they were excellent at what they did-so when Crockett suggested I take a few weeks and visit his Aunt Gert, I did."

She smiled at Boone, the expression animated by the starlike tears on her face. "They saved my life, I think, Crockett and Gert, because even now with that twenty-twenty retrospect we're all blessed with, I don't know what I would have done. Dad was the one who died, but my life as I knew it ended too."

Crockett. d.a.m.n, even wearing a sworn-to-celibacy collar, Crockett had trumped him. Boone pushed back the thought, knowing it was both inaccurate and immature.

"I'm glad you're here," he said, lacing her fingers with his. "I'm sorry for the reasons, but still glad you're here."

The tears had dried, leaving only dusty little tracks in the sparkly powder on her cheeks, and he thought her smile brightened at his words. "I am too."

Chapter Eight.

Lucy loved Cats, though it made her cry. She'd forgotten how much fun it was sitting in a theater seat beside a guy you liked. Really liked. They played dueling elbows for the common arm rest until he captured her hand sometime after intermission and held it until the lights came up. Even through the fabric of his pants, she felt the warmth of his leg against hers.

"That was so much fun," she said, when they stood for the ovation following the performance. "I think I like dating."

"Me too." His smile was warm, and right in front of her eyes she saw the twinkle happen. She wasn't sure how a six-feet-plus-some man with big feet managed to appear impish, but he did. "Does this mean you're going to sleep with me?"

Probably sometime. She barely stopped herself from saying the words. "No, but I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

When they sat in a vinyl booth with their knees touching, thick mugs of coffee and plates of strawberry shortcake between them, Boone said, "Tom Simc.o.x said someone set the fire in the trash can."

"I know." Lucy had been interviewed by the burly sheriff. Easily twice the size of the pretty physician who was his wife and with a military past he never talked about, he was more calming than intimidating. Landy Walker said he'd gotten that way in high school when he spent all his time keeping Eli and Micah out of trouble. Eli and Micah, on the other hand, insisted Tom was the one who caused most of the trouble.

"He acted as though it was just some random vandalism," Lucy said doubtfully, "but he had to wonder. This is Taft, for heaven's sake. There isn't much real vandalism. I asked Jack if there was gang activity here and he gave me a blank stare and asked why anyone would want to mess with that. This is a kid who's sixteen and even though I don't know much about him, I'm pretty sure his life isn't like an episode of Happy Days. He spends too much time away from home for that. I know his dad isn't around, but his mom never seems to check on him, either. He would know if gang activity was going on."

Boone shook his head at her. "Don't borrow trouble. Even in cozy little towns, people do bad things. No one knows that any better than Tom. Landy Walker's first husband was the quarterback when they were all in high school. He beat the h.e.l.l out of her off and on for years, one of those things people suspected but no one really knew. When he came after her and his next wife with a gun, Landy shot and killed him by accident and ended up on trial for murder. It was a grisly time."

"I didn't know that." Landy was one of her favorite people in Taft. She hated the idea of her having been hurt.

He took a bite of shortcake. "Yours is better than this."

"I should hope so," she said indignantly. "This cake came right out of a cellophane package. I use sweetened biscuit dough."

He laughed at her, and she set her fork down to enjoy the sound of it slipping along her nerve endings, sending warmth and heaviness directly to the area between her legs she tried her best not to think about. Usually.