Twice in a lifetime, p.17
Twice in a Lifetime, page 17
“About that,” he began. “We need to talk.”
“Oh, yeah?” Amos asked. “’Bout what?”
But before Drake could say another word, the phone rang; the way Amos reacted, wincing in agony, the sound was worse than being punched. At first, Drake considered ignoring it, but then he wondered if it might be Clara and answered. Instead, it was the hotel’s owner.
“Mr. McCoy?” she began. “Sorry to bother you, but there’s a fella down here who wants a word with you.”
“Who is it?” Drake asked.
The woman paused. “You should just come hear what he has to say,” she said. “I reckon that if he bothered to come, it’s bound to be important.”
With that, she hung up.
For a moment, Drake stood with the silent receiver in his hand. Eventually, he put it back on its cradle, his thoughts churning.
“What was that about?” Amos asked.
“I’ve got to take care of something real quick,” he answered, too curious to ignore the summons. Drake had the doorknob in his hand when he stopped, turning back to his friend and partner. “We’ve still got things we need to talk about.”
“Whenever you can find the time,” Amos replied dismissively. With a groan, he lay back on his bed, rolled away from Drake, and pulled the blanket over his head. “You know where I’ll be.”
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Drake saw who was calling on him; it was the banker, the same man who had upset Clara a couple of days before. He stood near the front door, facing away from the staircase, one foot nervously tapping the floor. He wore an expensive suit, the fabric too tight around his waist. A gold watch chain hung from his pocket. Drake glanced at the woman who ran the hotel. She kept looking back and forth between the two men, her face sour, as if she’d just bitten into a lemon. Abruptly, she turned and disappeared through a curtain hung behind the front desk.
What in the hell’s going on here?
Drake cleared his throat.
The man spun around, looking surprised. “Ah, Mr. McCoy!” he said cheerfully, although there was an obvious fakeness to his voice, a nervous tremor. “I didn’t hear you come down. I hope you don’t mind my dropping by like this, but I thought we should meet under better circumstances.” He walked over and stuck out his hand. “I’m Eddie Fuller. I own the bank.”
Drake took the offered greeting, giving the man’s hand one firm pump before letting go; Eddie’s grip was cold and clammy.
“What can I do for you?” he asked flatly.
“Well,” the banker began, fishing in his pocket for a silk handkerchief, which he used to wipe the rapidly accumulating sweat from his brow, “I was hoping we might discuss what we can do for each other.”
Eddie smiled strangely as he talked, flashing plenty of teeth; he acted as if they were old friends. But Drake saw right through the banker’s fake cheer. Over the years, he’d met plenty of con artists, liars, and thieves: grizzled men in raggedy old suits who sold bottled tap water out of the backs of their trucks, talking as fast and slick as a carnival barker, claiming that it would cure any ailment under the sun; trashy young women who hopped from one rich man to the next, sucking their wallets drier than a creek bed in summer, getting by on their looks for as long as Father Time allowed; and so-called men of the cloth, going around the countryside preaching in God’s name, but always with their hands out and most donations finding a way into their pockets. Eddie might not be so blatantly rotten, but like those others he was out for only himself, no matter who he had to trample to get what he wanted.
“So say your bit,” Drake replied.
Eddie looked toward the hotel desk; it was currently unoccupied, but Edna couldn’t have gone far. “Let’s step into the parlor,” he suggested. Drake gave a curt nod and followed him into the hotel’s front room.
The parlor was small, but felt even tinier for being crammed with too many tables and chairs; however, with its fancy wallpaper and huge glass chandelier, it was surely the ritziest room the Sunset Hotel had to offer. Eddie took a seat near the window and beckoned for Drake to join him.
“I’ll stand,” he answered.
“Please,” the banker replied. “We don’t have to be enemies. We’re both businessmen, unless I’m mistaken and you race cars just for sport.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed.
Eddie again flashed his goofy smile. “Are you surprised that I’d try to learn something about you?”
“I shouldn’t be. I just don’t know why you’d go to the trouble.”
The rich man’s cheeks flushed. “I would have thought that to be obvious.”
Drake’s jaw tightened. “Clara…”
Eddie nodded, still unable to meet the other man’s gaze. “That’s right. I can only assume from your arrival at the bank that you’re interested in her as well. Unfortunately, that’s a problem,” he said, finally turning to face Drake.
“Is it now?”
“I’m in love with her.”
Looking at the banker, it was obvious to Drake that, from the outside, Eddie Fuller wasn’t much of a rival; his looks weren’t the sort that attracted much attention. But the fact that he was probably the richest man in town meant that dismissing Eddie out of hand would be a mistake. Drake had to tread carefully, as if driving on a wet track.
“You’re not her type,” he replied.
“Of course I am,” the banker disagreed defiantly. “She deserves a man like me, someone successful enough to give her whatever she desires.”
“And what is it that you think Clara wants?”
“Why, the same as every woman. A big home, a new car, jewels, fur coats, and parties at which to show it all off.”
Even though he’d known Clara for only a short time, Drake was convinced that she longed for none of those things; it was good for him that she didn’t, because he couldn’t have afforded any of them. But what he could give her was the thing she wanted most, even needed, and something Eddie had neglected to mention.
Love.
“When I saw the two of you inside the bank,” Drake said, “she didn’t seem all that interested in you or any of what you’re offering.”
Eddie’s ridiculous grin faltered, revealing the ugliness underneath. “She will be,” the banker insisted. “The more time we spend together, the more she will understand that there’s no better husband for her than me. What I had planned that day would’ve gone a long way toward that if you hadn’t interrupted and ruined everything.”
Eddie Fuller didn’t strike Drake as the sort of man who handled rejection well. Rich men were used to getting what they wanted. Drake was convinced that if Clara was left alone with Eddie, no matter how much she rejected his advances, the banker would pressure her relentlessly until she gave in.
“Clara would tell you otherwise,” Drake said.
Eddie shook his head. “Though it pains me to say it, right now Clara isn’t smart enough to know what’s in her own best interest.” One eyebrow rose quizzically. “I wonder if you’re any better.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Slowly, Eddie reached into his suit coat and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “I have something for you.” He put it on the table and slid it across to Drake, who, with no small amount of trepidation, picked it up. When he unfolded it, his eyes grew wide and his breath caught in his throat.
It was a check. It was made out in his name for two thousand dollars.
“Why…why would…” he stammered.
“This is business,” Eddie explained. “That money is yours, no strings attached, so long as you do one thing.”
Drake’s pulse hammered in his ears.
Eddie leaned forward. “All you have to do is pack your things, throw them in that fancy car of yours, and drive away. And then, once you’ve left Sunset, you don’t ever come back. As a matter of fact, you never so much as think about Clara Sinclair again.”
He looked into the banker’s eyes, sure that this was some sort of joke, but even though Eddie couldn’t meet the intensity of his gaze for long, the businessman was serious. He wondered if the man had done this before: buying someone off, making them give up something they cared about in exchange for money.
Drake wasn’t a rich man, never had been.
There were times in his life when he’d struggled with money, wondering where his next meal might come from, how he was going to pay for a hotel room on a rainy night, or how he might afford enough gas to race. Somehow, through hard work and the strength of his convictions, he’d always managed to come up with what he needed. But Clara wasn’t for sale. Love wasn’t something that could be bought at a roadside stand. It was a priceless jewel. For Drake to surrender Clara and walk away from something he’d spent his whole life searching for would have been ridiculous. It was too great a cost, one he would never pay.
“You’re insane,” Drake spat as he began ripping the check into little pieces.
For a split second, Eddie looked stunned, wide-eyed at the turn of events. But then his face hardened. He reached inside his suit and pulled out his checkbook.
“All right, then. You want more, is it?” he asked. “Name your price.”
“You don’t have enough to make me leave Clara.”
“Come on, now. What if I double it?” Eddie prodded, raising his pen, poising it above another check.
“Go to hell,” Drake snarled.
“You would walk away from four thousand dollars?”
“You’re damn right I would,” he replied, and made to do exactly that.
But then Eddie said something that made Drake stop in his tracks. “Do you know what will happen to Clara if you refuse this money?”
Drake turned back.
“You see, my bank owns the note on Clara’s house,” Eddie explained. “With some creative accounting, by changing a number here and there, I can make it appear that Clara’s behind in her payments. Her loan would be in arrears.” He paused, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips. “If she couldn’t come up with the money, the bank would own the house and she’d be out on the street.”
Drake fumed, his thoughts churning. It was obvious that this was the leverage Eddie was using against Clara; it explained why she’d been so reluctant to talk about what had happened at the bank. If she didn’t give in to Eddie, he would take her house and ruin her life, along with those of her mother and son.
“You’d never get away with it.”
“Oh, I most certainly would. If I were you, it’s a risk I wouldn’t be willing to take,” the banker said, flashing a smug, irritating smile.
“You son of a bitch,” Drake growled.
Eddie held up his hands, as if he was afraid that Drake was about to tear him limb from limb. “I don’t want to do it that way,” he said. “I want her love unconditionally, but to have her, I will use force if I have to.”
Unfortunately, Drake believed every word the bastard said.
So what was he going to do about it?
But then, surprisingly, Eddie gave him a sliver of hope. “I know this is a lot to think about,” the banker said, nervously drumming his fingers on the table. “How about you take a day or two to think it over, to fantasize about what all this money might buy you? With some time, I’m sure you’ll see it my way. If you actually have feelings for Clara, you’ll agree that the best thing you can do is get as far away from her as possible. Because if you don’t…”
Drake understood all too clearly.
Without a word, he turned and left. The clock was ticking…
Chapter Eighteen
OPEN UP, MOM,” Clara said as she leaned against the closed bedroom door, her ear pressed against the wood, straining for a sound. “Please…”
She held another plate of food in her hands, the third she had brought for Christine to eat: a couple of eggs, some sausage, and two pieces of toast. Clara hoped this one would have a different fate than the others; each had remained untouched, reluctantly taken away after they’d turned cold as stone.
After Drake had left the night before, Clara had gone to bed but once again hadn’t been able to sleep. She had stared at the ceiling, listening for any sound her mother might make: the creak of a floorboard, the rustling of bedsheets, even a cough or a snore. But all she heard was the beating of her own heart. Eventually, it had calmed her to sleep.
But once morning had come, still without a sound, a touched plate, or an opened door, Clara had started to grow concerned.
“Mom! Can you hear me?” She knocked hard, insistently, her fist pounding against the wood, but there was still no answer.
Suddenly, panic flared in Clara’s heart. What if something had happened to her mother? What if she was hurt, in need of help?
“Mom! Open up! Open your door!”
Even as Clara yelled, her imagination began to run wild, creating one horrible scenario after another, terrifying her. She grabbed the doorknob, turned it while pulling at the same time, rattling the door in its frame in a desperate attempt to make it open. Shame filled her for not doing it sooner, for letting her mother wallow in her pain, for not trying to help. She was only vaguely aware of the plate shattering on the floor, food spilling at her feet. She pounded and yanked and shouted, all at the same time.
But then, just as she was about to ram the door with her shoulder, hoping she might be able to force it open, Clara heard something.
“Leave me alone…” Christine said from inside, her voice faint.
Clara gasped with a mixture of relief and sadness. Tears filled her eyes. “Mom…Oh, Mom…” she answered, her face again pressed against the door. “Please…open the door…”
Once more, there was silence.
Slowly, Clara straightened, wiping away her tears as she tried to compose herself. Her mother had given her what she wanted, the acknowledgment that she was alive. But she would grant nothing more.
Reluctantly, and with a heavy heart, Clara walked away.
Clara absently pushed herself on the porch swing. Lazy clouds drifted by on the afternoon breeze. On the opposite side of the street, George Atkinson, Sunset’s mailman, went about his appointed rounds. Somewhere nearby, a car honked its horn; two short beeps followed by one long note, its own Morse code.
How different everything looked last night…
Hours earlier, she had sat in the swing beside Drake, their fingers entwined, the warmth of his skin enough to ward off the evening’s chill. After the day’s excitement, his presence had been a comfort. She wanted him beside her, and was thankful that that was right where he wished to be. So much had changed in such a short time; she could only imagine how different it would become now that Drake had expressed a desire to remain in Sunset, to stay by her side.
Drake’s declaration had surprised her. That he was willing to give up a part of his life for her was amazing. When she listened to him talk, about their relationship, opening a garage, a future in Sunset, it gave her hope. Her life since Joe’s death had been so gloomy, it was hard to believe that sunnier days were on the horizon. She was scared that she could be wrong, that she was misunderstanding something about the situation, but she refused to surrender to her fears that she couldn’t find happiness, that she didn’t deserve love. She most certainly did.
Still, there were problems.
Foremost on Clara’s mind was Tommy. Her son still hadn’t come home since his grandmother had nearly lit the house on fire. He was surely with Naomi, unaware of the calamity that had struck his family. But what alarmed Clara most was her reaction to his absence; she’d started to get used to it. She knew that it was wrong of her, that Tommy was in a precarious spot in his life where one mistake could ruin him. So right then and there, Clara decided that regardless of her mother’s deteriorating health, her troubles with Eddie, and even her relationship with Drake, her son had to come first. Nothing else was more important.
It was then that Clara heard a sound that stunned her.
Piano music.
Without hesitation, Clara was out of the porch swing and hurrying for the front door. Inside, she froze, dumbfounded by what she saw.
Her mother was playing the piano.
Christine sat on the small bench, her hands moving quickly, dancing from one note to another. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows to fall across the wooden floor, wash over the black instrument, its heavy lid closed, and finally reach the edges of the ivory keys. Music echoed around the room. The melody was familiar, a song that Clara had listened to often when she’d been a little girl: “Song of the Lark,” by Tchaikovsky. Christine’s hands worked up and down the keys, her face a mask of concentration, while her foot gently pumped the pedals.
Tears filled Clara’s eyes. Happiness and relief flooded her heart. It had been many long years since her mother had last played. For as long as Clara could remember, music had been Christine’s greatest passion. She plunked children’s tunes, contorted her fingers through the complexities of Mozart, somberly played during funerals, reveled at weddings, and had even composed a few songs of her own. But then her memory had begun to fade…
One day, years ago, Clara had suddenly realized that her mother hadn’t played for a long time; it was easy to understand why. For Christine, the frustration of tripping over a note she’d struck thousands of times before had become unbearable. Rather than embarrass herself, it was easier to shut the lid over the keys. That was the end of it.
Until today.
Once she finished Tchaikovsky, Christine moved on to a church processional, then a show tune that Clara recognized but couldn’t name, and finally a lively Duke Ellington number. Sweat beaded on her brow, but Christine never slowed. Occasionally, she would stumble over a note, making the slightest of errors, but Clara didn’t know if it was because of a deficiency in her memory or simply the rust from not having played for so long. Listening to the music, Clara was reminded of happier times, back when Tommy used to stand next to his grandmother and sing with the enthusiasm of a child, not the least bit self-conscious of his voice; reminiscing made her happy and sad at the same time.
