Page 115 of Confessions

“But I—”

“He needs some space. He’s had a helluva shock.”

But I love him, she cried mutely, feeling the officer’s strong hands restraining her as Ben disappeared around a corner.

“He’ll be okay,” the officer assured her. “It’ll just take a little time. He needs to be alone for a few minutes, but don’t worry about him, I’ll send a squad car after him.”

Carlie, numb, couldn’t say a word.

The officer motioned for one of the paramedics. “Hey, Joe, you got a blanket and a cup of coffee?”

“Comin’ right up.”

Carlie barely heard the exchange. She was still staring down Spruce Street where neighbors had clustered and stood whispering and shaking their heads, but her eyes were still searching for Ben.

A blanket was tossed over her shoulders and a disposable cup of warm coffee placed between her fingers, but she didn’t move. She wanted to run after Ben, to hold him, to kiss him, to make love to him again and tell him everything would be all right. But he didn’t want to hear her lies, nor did he want her comforting touch.

Shivering, Carlie began to sob. Deep, racking, pain-filled sobs. For Kevin. For the Powell family. But mostly for Ben.

BOOK TWO

Gold Creek, California

The Present

Chapter Five

CARLIE SLID HER Jeep between two cars and told herself she just had to get through the ceremony, then she could leave. Watch Nadine Powell Warne become Mrs. Hayden Monroe, say congratulations and be off.

Except that she’d have to see Ben again! Ben the Impossible. Ben the Cruel. Ben the Terrible. She could give him a thousand names but it wouldn’t change the fact that she’d have to pretend that he meant nothing to her, that the past was dead and buried and that she was content to live her life without him. Which, of course, she reminded herself, she was.

How ironic that they were both back in Gold Creek after years away. She hoped that he was just passing through, staying only long enough to watch the wedding ceremony, then climbing back into his beat-up pickup and taking off for parts unknown.

She’d leave, too, if she could, but her father’s health wasn’t what it once was. The doctors thought he’d had a series of tiny strokes, and he’d been forced to stop working for a while, maybe forever. Carlie’s mother was sick with worry. Carlie, as the only child, had offered to stick around until things were settled.

And she’d found a job. Not just a job. A “career opportunity” Rory Jaeger, her old boss, had told her when she’d approached him about working part-time. He’d scoffed at her proposal. Hadn’t she been a New York model? Hadn’t she seen Paris? What could she possibly want with his little business? She’d explained that though she didn’t need work, not desperately, quite yet, she needed a studio to develop her pictures. As well as a place to put down a few roots—shallow ones perhaps, but roots nonetheless.

Rory had become more interested and they’d struck a deal. For a small investment, she could own half the shop. He was close to retiring anyway and they’d shook hands on their agreement, sealing her fate to stay in Gold Creek for at least a year, probably longer, at which time she could sell her interest back to Rory or to someone else, upon Rory’s approval.

The documents were being drawn up by the lawyers and within the week she would become part owner of the shop. If she needed extra income, she could drive to San Francisco and talk to a modeling agency there and she’d called her old agency in New York, giving the owner, Constance, her telephone number and address. The modeling was a long shot; she hadn’t been in front of a camera in years and she didn’t have much interest in trying to revive a career that had barely gotten off the ground. Still, she couldn’t afford not to keep all her options open.

So she was stuck in Gold Creek for a while and she’d just have to be able to face Ben if she ran into him again, which, in a town this size, was a foregone conclusion.

She locked her Jeep and started walking to one of the largest houses built upon the shores of Whitefire Lake. The house was cozy, despite its size. Now, in the coming twilight, Monroe Manor looked like something out of an old-fashioned Christmas card. Snow was piled on the third-floor dormers, golden light glowed warmly through frosted windows and smoke drifted lazily from a chimney. Icicles hung like crystal teardrops from the gutters that separated the house from the garage. Two dogs, one black-and-white, the other a yellow Lab, wandered through the tree-covered acres.

It’s now or never, she thought, wondering what she would say to George Powell. Before she could second-guess herself, she rang the doorbell and prayed that she would be inside before Ben arrived.

She heard the rumble of a truck’s engine as the door opened and a boy of about seven or eight, with red-blond hair, freckles and mischievous hazel eyes stood before her. Dressed in a black suit and white shirt, he shoved out his hand in a gesture that looked as if it had been practiced a hundred times over. “Hi, I’m Bobby.”

Ah. Nadine’s younger son. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Carlie.” She shook his hand firmly.

His nose wrinkled thoughtfully. “You’re the model, aren’t you?”

Laughing a little, she said, “I was, but that was quite a while ago.”

“Wow! Wait until I tell Katie Osgood. She said you wouldn’t show up and that—”

“Robert!” A short, blonde woman whom Carlie recognized as Ben and Nadine’s aunt Velma, came to the rescue. “We’re glad you could come,” she said with a smile, then shooting a warning look to Bobby.