Читать книгу No One But You - Brenda Novak - Страница 14

6

Work at the diner proved uneventful, and much slower than the day before, so Sadie was able to leave early, swing by the store for the beer Dawson had requested and the hardware store to pick up a few items and arrive at the farm on time. She got the key to the house from Dawson, who was working in the same field as yesterday, and let herself in. Then she mixed up a quick bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough. Dawson had told her he didn’t need lunch. He’d packed himself a sandwich using some of the leftover roast she’d made for last night’s dinner—he seemed to really like the roast—but she figured he’d be ready for a snack in a couple of hours. Since he was keeping her on instead of hiring someone else, she wanted him to be glad, and everyone loved her cookies. Sly still asked her to bake them for certain events. Anyway, a small treat was about all she could think of to thank Dawson—partially because that was the best she could afford.

After she cleared away the dishes he’d put on the counter since she left last night, and cleaned up her mess with the mixing bowl and beaters, she decided to vacuum and dust the downstairs and wash the windows. The place needed a good de-webbing, too. She’d purchased a brush with a long handle at the hardware store so she could reach the corners.

Throughout the house, but especially in the living room, several pictures had been taken down. The wallpaper wasn’t quite as sun-bleached where they’d once hung. She guessed they’d been destroyed by vandals, were among the bits and pieces Dawson had swept up and dumped out, and felt sad that people would do such a thing. Destroying the house and its furnishings wasn’t right even if Dawson was a murderer. Trespassing was a crime. So was the destruction of private property. What made them so confident they knew what happened here, anyway? What if he was innocent? And what if the items destroyed were treasured family heirlooms? Those items had belonged to Angela, too, who was absolutely innocent.

At least Dawson still had most of his parents’ furniture. The word murderer had been engraved in the coffee table as well as spray-painted on the front of the house. But she was going to take care of both those things. She’d purchased paint at the hardware store when she bought the de-webber, felt it was especially important she get the letters off the front of the house before she left today. Not only would having them gone make her more comfortable coming to work, she couldn’t imagine the sight of them would impress anyone who visited to make sure the house was ready for Angela.

The first batch of cookies came out as she finished sanding the top of the coffee table. She’d ruined the finish, of course, but the sight of bare wood beat what’d been there before. Who wanted to be constantly reminded of someone else’s judgment—someone who probably didn’t know one way or the other?

She’d bought some stain at the hardware store, too, so she could cover the damage. Even if it didn’t work perfectly, she was glad she’d obliterated that word. She couldn’t believe Dawson would mind.

She stopped working on the table long enough to put some cookies on a plate, pour a glass of cold milk and take them outside.

She could tell Dawson was surprised when she called out to him. Chances were he hadn’t expected to see her again until he came in for dinner. But she figured her timing was good. He was breathing hard when she reached him—sweating, too. As far as she was concerned, he was running himself ragged.

“What’s this?” he asked as she drew close.

“I baked some cookies.” She offered him the plate but kept the milk so he’d have a free hand with which to eat. “Here’s hoping you’re not opposed to having a little treat now and then.”

“I’d never turn away homemade cookies. I haven’t had anything like this since...”

When his words fell off, she guessed he’d been about to say, “Since before my mother died,” which gave her the impression he really missed Lonnie. That was another reason she didn’t think he’d killed her or his father. Although he seemed cautious when it came to revealing emotion, he seemed to be sincere in his love for them, seemed to miss them.

“Sly insisted I enter this recipe at the county fair,” she said as he took his first bite.

He swallowed. “And?”

She regretted mentioning the county fair. That she cared about something so inconsequential made her sound like a hick, especially considering the fact that he had a better education than she did. But she was nervous. He was so good-looking that he made her self-conscious. Those eyes of his...

No wonder the women on the jury had been blamed for his exoneration.

She cleared her throat. “I won.”

He took another bite, then nodded. “I’m not surprised.”

Maybe he didn’t think it was a stupid comment. Tough to tell. She ventured a smile. “I’m glad you like them.”

“How are things at the house?”

“Good. I’m working on the downstairs. I should get most of it done today. But...”

When she paused, he glanced up from the plate. “What?”

“I noticed that you have a new washer and dryer.”

“Someone filled the other ones with dirt and who knows what else. I wasn’t going to mess with trying to clean them out.”

“That wasn’t right. I’m sorry.”

“They were old, needed to be replaced, anyway.”

“Still.”

He reached for the milk and took a long swig. “We all have our problems, remember?”

“That was a pretty dumb thing for me to say.”

His eyebrows slid up.

“I was nervous when I made that comment. I feel terrible about what you’ve been through.”

He studied her as if weighing her sincerity. “Thanks,” he said at length.

She accepted the glass of milk so he could finish the cookies. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could do some of my own laundry while I’m here. I have a small stackable set at my house, but there’s something wrong with the washer. It’s not getting our clothes clean.”

“Of course. Do as much laundry as you’d like.”

“I appreciate that.” She’d brought her and Jayden’s dirty clothes with her, in case. Now she could get the bag out of her car. “Where will I find your hamper? I’ll wash your stuff while I do mine.”

“There’s a pile of clothes in the corner of my bedroom. I’ve been meaning to buy a hamper. Haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“I can get one when I’m in town sometime, if you’d like.”

“Sure. That’d be great.” Finished with the cookies, he downed the rest of the milk and handed the dishes back to her. “Those were delicious.”

Perhaps it was a simple thing, but she was happy she’d managed to please him. “I’m glad.”

She was on her way to the house when he called out to her.

“How’d it go with your ex last night?”

She shaded her face as she turned back. “Better than expected. He knew he had no business coming over here, that I was angry with him for doing that, so he was trying to be charming.”

“Charming means he has hope.”

“Excuse me?”

“He’s still trying to win you back.”

“Yes.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“Not if I can help it. That’s why I’m here.”

He scratched up under his hat. “He didn’t give you any grief about working for me?”

From the moment she’d let him know about the appointment. But she couldn’t repeat most of what Sly had said. “A little. He asked me to go down to the police station with him so I could talk to the detective on your case.”

A muscle moved in Dawson’s jaw. “And? Did you agree?”

“No.”

“Because...”

“I already know what they’re going to say.”

* * *

Sadie wasn’t in the house. Dawson could smell dinner simmering in that old Crock-Pot she’d brought over, but she didn’t answer when he called her name. He found a receipt she’d left on the counter. Apparently, he owed her another $78.08 for supplies from the hardware store, so he left a $100 bill beside it. There was no note to indicate she’d left, though, nothing else.

He checked the front window to see if her El Camino was still in the drive. It was. And when he went to the laundry room off the back porch, he saw a stack of little boys’ clothes folded on top of the dryer he’d missed when he came in.

So where was she?

“Sadie?” He moved back toward the front of the house.

No answer.

While in the kitchen again, he removed the lid on the slow cooker to see what she’d made for dinner and found some giant meatballs bathed in tomato sauce. A bowl of plain pasta sat on the counter with tin foil over the top. Garlic bread that looked and smelled as if it’d just been pulled from the oven waited nearby.

He’d been served plenty of spaghetti in jail, but he could tell this meal wasn’t going to be anything like that tasteless mess.

He cut off a chunk of meatball so he could taste it. “Damn, that’s good,” he muttered.

Thinking she might’ve decided to clean his room or Angela’s, he went upstairs. She’d made great strides on the first floor. He liked the lemon smell of the furniture polish and the astringent scent of the disinfectant. But, from what he could see, the only thing she’d done upstairs was his laundry. His clothes, folded as neatly as her son’s, waited on the bed.

On the way back down, he paused in front of his parents’ bedroom. He doubted she’d go in there—hoped she wouldn’t—and was relieved when he tried the handle. Locked, as usual. She wasn’t in any of the bathrooms, either. She wasn’t anywhere in the house.

Had she gone outside, looking for him?

“Sadie?” He let the screen door slam as he went out back. “Sadie, where are you?”

“Here!”

At last, he got a response. He followed her voice around to the front, where he found her on the roof, painting over the graffiti on the house.

“How’d you get up there?” He squinted to see her clearly in the fading light.

She gestured to the far side of the porch. “I climbed.”

Using the railing and then the overhang. Whoever had defaced the house had probably gotten up the same way. He’d used that makeshift ladder to sneak out of the house when he was in high school, so he supposed he shouldn’t be too surprised. “You need to come down before you fall and break your leg or worse. The moss on those shingles can make them a lot slicker than you might expect.”

“I’m being careful.”

“I can cover that up myself. I just didn’t have the right paint.”

“This isn’t a perfect match, but I took a chip from the lintel of the back door when I left last night, so it’s not bad. Better than leaving it as it was.”

“I’ll finish up,” he insisted.

“Don’t make me stop in the middle. I’m almost done. Why don’t you go eat? Dinner’s in the kitchen. No need to let it get cold.”

Still a little nervous that she might come sliding off the porch and land on her back or head, he frowned as he watched. “I saw it, but I’m staying right here so I can help you down.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

“Trust me. Climbing up is a lot easier than coming down.” He’d almost broken his own neck on occasion—and that was before he’d arrived at whatever party he was heading out to, so he hadn’t been drinking. Some nights when he returned it was a miracle he’d been able to climb back up at all.

His parents had been through so much with him. He felt bad about his behavior now. But he’d had to test them, had to prove they were going to stick with him and love him no matter what. At least that was his mother’s interpretation. He wasn’t sure what had driven him to act out. Anger, he supposed. Youth, carelessness, selfishness. And yet they’d held fast. They’d stuck with Angela, even though she wasn’t perfect, and they’d stuck with him. Whoever killed them probably saw them as two insignificant old people, people who couldn’t adequately defend themselves or their belongings. But Dawson knew they were better than most people could ever hope to be. They’d made him whole, helped him find a little peace in the world, some direction—

“I guess having your help would make it easier to get the paint down without spilling it,” she conceded, interrupting his thoughts. “Hang on a minute.”

As he watched the crudely made letters disappear beneath her brush, an odd sense of relief grew inside him. Her simple act soothed some of the pain and anger that drove him like a cattle prod. But he would never forget what had started his rapid descent into hell. He’d find the person responsible for the brutal attack on his mom and dad and hold them accountable—even if it took the rest of his life to accomplish.

“How does it look?” Sadie asked when she was done. “Did I get it covered?”

He lifted his arms, in case she fell. “Whatever you do, don’t step back to see for yourself!”

She cast him a disgruntled look. “I’m not stupid. That’s why I asked you.”

“Tough to tell in this light. It’s too dark. I can always throw on another coat tomorrow morning. Come on. I’m starving.”

After handing down the paint and brush, she managed the descent quite nicely, for the most part. She was stronger and more agile than he’d given her credit for. Her problem was height. She was so short she had no choice but to swing freely until he guided her feet to the railing. That made him wonder what she would’ve done had he not been there, but he didn’t ask.

Although she probably would’ve been okay from there, she was close enough that he could grab her, so he set her on the ground, just to be safe. “Don’t go on the roof anymore,” he told her sternly.

She blinked at him with her wide hazel eyes. “I just wanted to get that...that ugly word off the front of the house. You could see it from the highway!”

“I’ll take care of that sort of thing in future.” He couldn’t let her get hurt. Everyone was so certain she wouldn’t be safe out here with him—especially her ex-husband.

“Then why didn’t you?” She picked up the paint and brush he’d set out of the way.

That she would come back at him, challenge him, took him by surprise. “I told you, I didn’t have the right paint.”

“It’s plain white, nothing exotic. You could’ve picked it up as easily as I did.”

He took the supplies from her. “And I planned to.”

“You just didn’t get around to it.”

“Not yet.”

“I’m not sure I can buy that.”

He said nothing, hoping she’d let the subject drop, but she didn’t.

“You’ve been back for two weeks.”

Again, he made no comment.

“You didn’t want to give anyone the pleasure of knowing it bothered you,” she said. “That’s the real answer, isn’t it? You were leaving it there to prove a point.”

“Oh yeah?” He spoke as he walked ahead of her, without turning back. “And what point would that be?”

He heard her slap her hands together as she dusted them off. “That you don’t care what people think of you. That you don’t need them to accept you, approve of you—or even like you.”

“You’re my employee, not my shrink,” he grumbled. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me.”

“I’m not. I’ve just been wondering why you wouldn’t paint over that immediately. Having it up there had to be painful and embarrassing—a horrible thing to see every time you pulled into your own driveway. Then, after working with you for two days, I decided on the reason I think you left it. So...will you do me the favor of telling me if I’m right?”

“No,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

* * *

Dawson paced in the dining area while Sadie was at the stove, dishing up the food. He was restless. Something about what happened outside had agitated him, but she wasn’t sure what. He had to be relieved that she’d painted over that red-lettered indictment. Now he didn’t have to. Although she didn’t know him well, she was convinced she was right about his reasoning, even if he wouldn’t come out and admit it. He was a proud man who didn’t like to be pushed around—the kind who would sacrifice almost anything for an ideal. The way he’d reacted to Sly, that he’d refused to cave in, told her as much.

She put his plate on the table before eyeing him speculatively. “What’s wrong?”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he pivoted and came back toward her. “I’m not sure this is going to work out, Sadie.”

“This.” She could tell by his voice that he wasn’t talking about dinner. “You mean the job.”

He stretched his neck. “Yeah.”

“Why?” She would’ve been worried that he was about to fire her. She’d been worried last night. But this...this didn’t feel like someone who really wanted to get rid of her. He liked her, liked what she cooked and the improvements she’d made to the house. She could tell. She also knew he’d be loath to search for someone else; he didn’t want to be bothered with that. He wanted to work and put his life right. So...what was the problem?

“It’s complicated,” he said as he came over to the table and sat down.

She studied him, trying to read his body language. She saw regret, reluctance, maybe even a little indecision. “You mean because of Sly, my ex.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Yeah. I guess.”

She brought her own plate over to the table and sat across from him. “Except that you’ve gotten beyond Sly’s opposition to my working here twice so far.”

He turned his fork over and over in his hand. “He could always come around again.”

“True. I warned you of that. And you texted me to be here at one.”

“Maybe I should’ve thought about it a little more carefully.”

“Because...”

He said nothing, just started shoveling spaghetti into his mouth.

“You’re upset that I covered up an ugly word some asshole painted on your house. Why?”

“You could’ve fallen off the roof.”

“But I didn’t. And now that it’s handled, I won’t go back up there. So...can we focus on the real problem?”

“This isn’t the best place for you, that’s all.”

He was wrestling with himself over something. “You told me I’d be safe.”

“You are safe. From me. Problem is...I can’t control anyone else.”

“Who do you need to control?”

He didn’t answer.

Pushing her plate away without touching her food, she waited as he polished off a meatball. “If I’m not around, how will you get your sister back?” she asked at length.

“I’ll have to hire someone else.”

“Then this is because I painted the front of the house.”

“No, it’s not. That’s ridiculous!”

“You’re uncomfortable because I did you a favor, and it wasn’t even that big of a deal. You’re so used to being judged and reviled, you no longer know what to do with human kindness.”

He swallowed, his gaze finally riveting on her face. “I know what to do with kindness. It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.”

“Me.”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

“How do you think all the people you care about—your friends and neighbors, your ex and his family—will react if they believe you’re taking my side? Befriending a man who—” he made quotations marks with his fingers “—killed his parents? They’ll start treating you like they do me. You’ll be an outcast. It can happen quickly, and once it does, you might not be able to turn it around—not in such a small town.”