Читать книгу A Father's Sacrifice - Karen Sandler - Страница 9

Jameson O’Connell stared out the window of his attorney’s BMW as the silver sedan wound down Prison Road toward freedom. Behind him the drab walls of Folsom Prison disappeared around a curve, vanishing from his sight.

But the memories wouldn’t vanish. Those images and raw experiences would stay with him forever.

“There’s a car for you,” John Evans said. “I left it parked at my law office.”

“A car?” Jameson glanced over at the man who had been his unexpected salvation. “Whose car?”

“Yours,” John said as he pulled to a stop at the terminus of Prison Road. “A gift from your grandmother.”

I don’t want it! The words rose, hot and angry, in his mind, but he swallowed them back. He’d taken her money already—it had paid for the attorney’s time at an astronomical hourly rate. His grandmother’s wealth had paid for court costs, expert testimony, even the crisp new Dockers slacks and pristine blue polo shirt he wore.

Guilt money, all of it. But for the moment Jameson had no choice but to take it. Just as he’d had no alternative but to accept his grandmother’s help in winning his release from prison.

They’d reached the Dam Road and now Folsom Lake lay to his right, green and turbulent with the scudding autumn wind. A sudden impulse sharpened within him to climb into a sailboat and ride across those choppy waters.

It hit him with as much force as a splash of Folsom’s icy water—he could do it. If he wanted, he could tell John Evans to turn the damn car around and let him out. He could scout out a sailboat to rent and with his grandmother’s largesse, he could climb on board and explore every one of Folsom’s myriad coves. He was free—to ride a sailboat, to skip rocks on the water, to do any other fool crazy thing he wanted.

As they took the last curve on the dam, Jameson braced in his seat against the car’s movement. His hands reflexively closed on the polished mahogany box in his lap.

Ridiculous really, to feel so protective of a box of ashes. But he’d never connected with his brother, Sean, while he was alive. He was loath to sever this connection with him in death.

“You have a destination in mind?” Evans asked.

Hart Valley. The answer slammed into his mind, although Jameson didn’t say it aloud. The softening inside him let him know just how dangerous it was to even think of that sanctuary.

But he didn’t want to think, and certainly didn’t want to make small talk with his lawyer. Evans had gotten his conviction overturned, had jumped through all the hoops on his behalf to get him set free. Jameson was grateful, truly he was. But he couldn’t risk thinking of Hart Valley, because then he would think of the Russos. And if he let himself think about the Russos, his mind would inevitably wander to Nina.

And he most definitely didn’t want to think about Nina.

“Not sure yet,” Jameson said curtly, then pointedly turned his head to stare out the window again. Evans took the hint and fell silent.

They exchanged only the most minimal pleasantries when Evans reached his posh Granite Bay office and handed Jameson the keys to a shiny new Camry. His grandmother could have sprung for a high ticket car—a BMW like Evans’s or a Mercedes. That she’d selected something more modest implied she’d given the choice some thought, had understood that he would have felt awkward and alien in a luxury vehicle.

He gripped the keys so tightly he felt them bite into his palm. Emotions gnawed at him—unwanted gratitude, a raging desire to fling the keys away, embarrassment and the overwhelming guilt that would never go away. His own, his grandmother’s, Sean’s.

Jameson unlocked the silver Camry and set the carved mahogany box carefully on the passenger seat. Evans handed him an envelope packed with papers laying out Sean’s trust and the small fortune that now belonged to Jameson. He slid inside the car, then tossed the envelope into the foot well of the passenger seat.

He would just as soon give all his grandmother’s money away. It was blood money, money with so many strings attached he couldn’t begin to undo the tangled snarl.

But as he meandered through the Sacramento streets searching for a place to go, he acknowledged that he could no more refuse his grandmother’s gift than he could restore those lost four years of his life. He was a man with a bad reputation and worse history. Despite the vocational training at the prison in cabinetry, he’d be a hard sell to a prospective employer. The trust would allow him to open his own business, to give him a margin of security other recently released inmates didn’t have.

He could even go up to Hart Valley, stay there if he wanted. Could make a home for himself on the scrappy five acres his late father had left him. Could set up a cabinet shop behind the derelict cabin he’d grown up in—if it was still standing after five years of neglect.

But could he face Nina?

The light at the intersection up ahead flashed from yellow to red and Jameson slammed on the brakes. The pickup in the lane behind him squealed to a halt, its front bumper nearly kissing the Camry’s rear. The young hot-head at the wheel of the truck shouted something profane and hit the horn the instant the light turned green again.

Jameson pulled through the intersection, regretting that he’d let Nina back inside his mind. He’d done everything he could to keep her out those four long years, reluctant to bring even her memory within those harsh gray walls of Folsom Prison. When he couldn’t resist the urging of his body’s heat, he blanked his mind, replaced the tempting images of Nina with one of the buxom, bland-faced pinups the other inmates plastered on their walls. He wouldn’t let himself remember so much as the scent of Nina’s perfume.

It all came rushing back now, though. The memories so intense, his hands shook. His grip on the Camry’s wheel grew slick with sweat and he knew he’d have to pull over or risk an even closer call than the one he’d had with the pickup.

He pulled into a strip mall driveway and parked the Camry outside a discount shoe store. Sagging in his seat, he threw his head back, let his gaze wander out the side window. His chest felt tight, sharp pain digging deep. If he hadn’t felt this same ache a hundred times while lying in his cell, he might have thought it was a heart attack.

You’re free. You can think of her now.

He felt tears burning, but he wouldn’t let them fall. Eyes squeezed shut, he released the constriction in his chest bit by bit, then let Nina in to the forbidden places.

It was dangerous, he knew, to think of her even now. But if he didn’t, he thought he’d die. He needed desperately, in these few minutes of fantasy, to pretend that Nina Russo would still be the idealized woman he had held in his arms nearly five years ago. The real Nina—the one who would certainly scorn and reject him—would see through his best intentions to the dark soul beneath. So, for now, he could pretend that Nina didn’t exist.