Page 132 of Confessions

That thought caused him to start and he nearly let the gas overflow.

“You’re losing it, Powell,” he growled to himself as he turned off the pump. With thoughts of Carlie trailing after him like a shadow, he walked inside the small Texaco station that had been on the corner of Hearst and Pine for as long as he could remember. The building had changed hands, but it still smelled of grease and stale cigarette smoke and oil.

“Good to see you around here again,” Joe said as he took Ben’s credit card in his grimy fingers. “I thought you’d said adios to Gold Creek forever.”

“So did I.”

Joe flashed him a toothy smile as he ran Ben’s card through the verification machine. “So you feel like the prodigal son?”

“Nope. Just the black sheep.”

Joe laughed and Ben signed the receipt. The conversation turned to football. The usual stuff. If the 49ers were going to the Super Bowl the following season, or if L.A. had a better chance. As if it mattered.

Later, as Ben drove away from the station and through the heart of town, he couldn’t remember any of the conversation. Retail buildings gave way to houses that bordered the eastern hills, but he didn’t notice any of the landmarks that had been a part of his hometown.

Because of Carlie. Damn that woman! Why couldn’t he get her out of his head?

Ben liked things cut-and-dried, clear and to the point and structured. That’s why he’d felt comfortable in the army, working his way up through the rank and file, and that’s why he’d planned to come back to Gold Creek, start his own business, settle down with a sensible small-town girl and raise his family. His future had seemed so clear.

Until he’d seen Carlie again.

And until he’d listened to her side of the story. Her lies. Or her truth?

“Hell,” he growled as he turned into the drive of his little house that wasn’t far from the city limits of Gold Creek. Ben had rented the place from an elderly woman, Mrs. Trover, who lived at Rosewood Terrace in an apartment just down the hall from his father. Ben promised to keep the house up, including minor and major repairs, which he could deduct from the monthly rent. It wasn’t much, two bedrooms, living room, single bath, kitchen, laundry room and a basement that leaked in the winter, but it had become home and he was certain, when the time was right, he could probably buy the house, outbuildings and half acre of land from Mrs. Trover on a contract.

He turned off the ignition and sat in the pickup for a second. The cottage needed more than a little repair—“TLC” he’d heard it called, but Ben knew it was just plain hard work. Even when it was brought up to code, the house wouldn’t be ritzy and Ben couldn’t picture Carlie living here with a tiny bathroom and a kitchen so small, only one person could work in it. Rubbing his jaw, he wondered why he kept trying to picture her in his future. She was all wrong for him. Kevin had told him as much long ago.

He should have listened. Maybe then Kevin would still be alive and Ben wouldn’t walk around with a load of guilt on his shoulders for falling for his older brother’s girl.

Trying to shove Carlie and all the emotional baggage she brought with her from his mind, he grabbed the sack of dog food he’d purchased earlier in the day and hauled the bag to the back door. “Honey, I’m home,” he said as he unlocked the door.

Attila growled from the darkened interior.

“Well, at least you still have your sweet disposition.”

A deep-throated bark.

“Come on, get out of here and do your business,” Ben said leaving the outside door open as he walked into the kitchen and found a mixing bowl. The dog padded after him, hackles raised, but not emitting a sound. “Go on. You don’t have to follow me around.” He sliced open the sack, poured the dry dog food into the bowl and set it on the kitchen floor.

Attila just looked at him.

“Go on. Dig in.” Ben waited and the dog slowly, as if he expected to be kicked or poisoned, cautiously approached the food. “Be paranoid if you want,” Ben said.

The shepherd cocked his head, then hurried outside. Within seconds he was back, his nose deep in dog food.

“That’s better.” Ben grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and walked into the living room. Flicking on the remote control to the television, he dropped into a chair near an old rolltop desk he’d shoved into the corner. The message light on his telephone was blinking. “Hopefully, this is about a dozen clients begging me to come work for them,” he said with a glance to the dog.

Attila didn’t respond.

He pressed the button, the tape rewound and a series of clicks were followed by the first message.

“This is Bill with General Drywall. We can be at the house on Bitner next week on Tuesday. I’ll send a crew unless I hear from you.”

The phone clicked again.

“Ben?” a female voice asked. “This is Tracy. I saw you today at the restaurant and I...we, Randy and I...were wondering if you’d like to stop by for dinner tonight. Nothing special—but we’d love to have you.” She paused for a second, then said, “How about seven? And if I don’t hear from you by six, I’ll just figure you had other plans. It was great seeing you today. Hope you can make it.”

He glanced at his watch. Five-forty-five. Why not have dinner with Tracy? A small-town girl. A woman who was content to live here with her son. Kevin’s son.