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Sandy was still thinking about her encounter with Heff later that night as she made her way over to Winona Mitchell’s house. When she’d left the motel that day weeks earlier, she hadn’t planned on seeing him again.
She’d imagined that, after the things they’d done, it would be awkward.
She’d been right.
He was even more devastatingly handsome than before, that silky, dark hair and twinkling diamond stud inciting a riot in some very private parts of her body. Not only was he gorgeous, but he also had this bad-boy aura around him, irresistible to women who lived on the “good” side of things. Before, she’d only fantasized about the kinds of things he could do. Now, she knew, and it was so, so much worse.
The uncertainty in his eyes though, that had been new. For a few moments there, she’d thought he was going to ask her out again. Not that they’d actually “gone out” the first time, but she wasn’t complaining. Those hours in the motel had been better than any actual “date” she’d ever had.
But he hadn’t been looking for a repeat; he’d been looking for information.
Of course he had. She was no fool. For as good as it had been for her, the experience had probably rated fair to middling on his scale. Pleasant but otherwise unremarkable. He hadn’t slept with her because she was irresistible, but because she was convenient, willing, and a means to an end.
Yes, she’d been the one to come on to him, but he hadn’t said no, had he? He’d probably seen it as not only a good time, but also a way to grease the wheels of the township-approval machine. That was just the way things worked, a simple fact of life. People used each other.
She wasn’t too upset because she’d been using him, too, in her own way. Being with someone like him was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and she’d jumped on him ... er, jumped at the chance.
She hadn’t expected to keep thinking about him though. To keep dreaming about him. To feel the ghostly echoes of his hands and mouth and ... other parts doing wicked, wonderful things. But that wasn’t his fault, and any hope-slash-delusion that he might be remembering her in the same way was totally on her and her alone.
She exhaled, navigating the quiet streets on autopilot, taking it all in. Mr. Handelmann had the sprinkler on in his front yard, and a bunch of neighborhood kids were playing some kind of slip-and-slide game of Red Rover. Karen Kowalski was eyeing them warningly as she weeded her flower bed, coiled and ready to lash out should they cross over into her immaculately tended property. The elderly Feinstermachers were on their porch swing, holding hands and watching it all with mild interest.
It was all so familiar. So predictable. Boring.
If she stayed in Sumneyville, this was what she’d have to look forward to, but without the kids or a husband of sixty years to sit on the porch and hold hands with. No, if she remained, she’d be right there beside Karen, viciously yanking thistles from between the begonias and daylilies, yelling at kids to get off her lawn while her six cats looked on from the windows.
She had to get out. She just had to. She needed to be somewhere where not every day was a carbon copy of the day before.
That was why Heff was so desirable—beyond the obvious, of course. He wasn’t safe or predictable. He was wild and dangerous and free to do what he pleased—everything she wanted for herself. It wasn’t so much him she craved as much as the freedom he represented.
And her recent daydreams and nighttime fantasies? They could be chalked up to stress, pure and simple. It was only natural that when everything she’d worked so hard for was going to shit around her, she’d want to wallow in the memory of those few hours where she hadn’t thought about much of anything, had just given her body over to an obvious master, and had let him take her to new, uncharted heights, consequences be damned.
For that reason alone, she wouldn’t regret her actions that day. Keeping it real, however, was imperative. And currently, her reality was watching her dream trickle away like sand through her fingers while she tried desperately to hold on.
She pulled into her driveway and crossed the street to Mrs. Mitchell’s house, finding Kevin waiting on the porch for her, just as he’d been waiting for their father. The difference was, she’d actually returned.
She hoped the last few hours had gone well. Getting him over there hadn’t been easy. He’d resisted, presumably for fear that if their father did show up by some miracle, he’d miss him. Sandy had had to prove he wouldn’t miss seeing anything by going across the street, standing on Mrs. Mitchell’s porch, and waving back at him.
“Hi, Kevin,” she greeted.
He said nothing but looked visibly relieved to see her, even gifting her with near eye contact.
Mrs. Mitchell was sitting on the porch, too, perched on the porch swing with a cup of tea. She didn’t appear anxious or frustrated. That was a good sign. Then again, the older woman had told her that one of her grandsons had a form of autism, so she was probably better equipped to deal with Kevin than most.
“Hi, Mrs. Mitchell. How’d it go?”
“Fine, Sandy, just fine.”
“No problems?”
“None whatsoever. Kevin is a joy and quite the talented artist too.”
Sandy turned to Kevin, who had stood and moved closer to her. “Artist?”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Mitchell beamed.
She pointed to a coloring book on the small table. The picture was a basic outline of a horse’s head peeking out from a simplified barn, but Kevin hadn’t just colored in the existing lines. He’d added his own, creating multiple layers of shading and depth until it looked three-dimensional. The detail in the face and eyes was incredible.
“You did this?” Sandy asked, incredulous.
Eyes on his feet, Kevin nodded.
After thanking Mrs. Mitchell, Sandy walked Kevin back across the street. She grabbed the bag of takeout from the front seat of her car. Rather than head right upstairs, as she’d expected, he stayed close and followed her into the kitchen.
“Are you hungry? I brought back some chicken tenders and tiramisu.”
He nodded and went over to the cabinets where he pulled out plates and silverware, and then he proceeded to set the table for two. Sandy poured them both some water, and they sat down to eat together. It wasn’t as awkward as it had been.
Kevin meticulously peeled the breading from the chicken, eating it piece by piece. Then, he dipped the remaining piece in the honey mustard sauce and ate it bite by bite. Sandy watched, fascinated by the way he turned ordinary tasks into precise, repeatable processes.
“I really like the picture you did for Mrs. Mitchell. Do you think you could make one for me too?”
He stilled and then suddenly pushed back his seat, got up, and left the room, leaving Sandy to think she’d inadvertently hit some kind of trigger or something. But then he returned and held out a sketchbook to her. He anxiously shifted his weight from side to side, waiting for her to take it.
Sandy accepted the book and opened it. It was big and thick, filled with stunning sketches of horses. All sizes, all colors, all very detailed and beautiful.
“Wow,” she murmured, flipping through page after page of professional-quality work. “You really have a gift. I can’t even draw stick figures.” That wasn’t exactly true. As a graphic design artist, she was moderately skilled at conveying the ideas in her head to paper, but she was much better at digital imagery and bringing concepts and feelings to life than she was actually drawing.
Kevin made a small sound, a combination of a chuff and a gurgle. When Sandy looked at him, she realized he was laughing. She couldn’t help smiling too.
His laughter died away as quickly as it had come. The unexpected moment over, Kevin took back his sketchbook and returned it to his backpack. Without a word, he helped her clean up the kitchen and then went upstairs for the night, leaving Sandy to wonder if it would ever happen again.
Through the open window, she caught the faint whiff of vanilla. Hanging the towels on the oven bar to dry, she went out onto their shared back porch to find Lenny sitting in the dark with a beer and a vape pen.
“Well, at least it smells better than cigarettes,” she told him, settling down on the deck chair next to his. “It’s still bad for you though. You know that, right?”
“Yes, Mom.” Lenny reached into the small cooler beside him and handed her a beer. “How was Franco’s?”
“Like I never left.”
“And how’d Kevin do with Mrs. Mitchell?”
“Pretty good, I think.” She told him what Mrs. Mitchell had said and then about the amazing drawings Kevin had done.
“Maybe he’s a savant.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
They sat in a comfortable silence that came with years of friendship, listening to the crickets and frogs and the occasional bark. Like everything else, it was easy, familiar. She let her eyes drift closed.
“You need to be careful with him, Sandy,” Lenny said finally.
Sandy opened her eyes and looked at him. “Careful, why? Kevin wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“No, I know, but it sounds like he’s warming up to you.”
She frowned. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“It could be. You’re still planning on leaving, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then, it might not be a good idea to let him get too attached. He’s already lost his mother and his father. If he starts depending on you and then you leave, too ...”
“It could hurt him,” she finished on an exhale. That was something she understood all too well. When you were close to someone and they left, it hurt.
Hurting Kevin was the last thing she wanted to do. He didn’t say much, but that wasn’t a bad thing. She’d gotten used to having him around, but ultimately, it changed nothing.
“I’m not ready to give up on my dreams, Len.”
He took a pull from his vape and exhaled, filling the air around with the sweet, mellow scent of vanilla. “Dreams can change.”
“Not mine. There’s nothing here for me.”
Lenny snorted softly. “Maybe there is, and you just can’t see it.”
“Yeah, yeah. The grass is always greener. I know.” They’d had this same conversation countless times. “But let’s face it; there’s not a lot of opportunity to put my design skills to use in Sumneyville.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I hear Handelmann’s Hardware is expanding. No more driving down into Pine Ridge for bulk mulch or decorative stone. Imagine the possibilities.”
Sandy grinned. “Not exactly Fifth Avenue.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I ask you, would you get a ten percent discount on paint and spackling supplies anywhere on Fifth Avenue?”
“Probably not.” Sandy laughed. “But everyone knows about Handelmann’s. Everyone goes there. There’s no reason to hire me to create stunning promo. It’s like preaching to the choir. Pointless.”
“Well, they have been in business since 1902.”
“Exactly my point.” She sighed. “Don’t you see, Len? That’s part of the problem. Everything around here is already set. Established. When was the last time a new business opened its doors in or around Sumneyville?”
He thought about that for a moment. “I hear there’s a ranch starting up on the mountain, some kind of riding center for people with disabilities. That’s new.”
Yeah, she’d heard about that too. The woman who owned the place had been all over the local news a few months earlier and a hot topic at Franco’s. She was the only known surviving victim of the Lonely Hearts Killer. Rumor had it, she’d hooked up with a guy in nearby Pine Ridge and had a disabled son or something.
“I guess there’s Sanctuary too,” she admitted.
Lenny’s face grew somber. “You stay away from those guys, Sandy.”
“Why?” she asked, taken aback by his sudden vehemence, so at odds with Lenny’s usual easygoing, laid-back demeanor. “Matt Winston is a local boy, and what they’re doing there is a good thing.”
“Matt Winston might have grown up around here, but he was never one of us. And this project of his, it’s going to bring more trouble.”
“More trouble? What do you mean?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Hello? Exploding coffee shop ring a bell?”
“That wasn’t their fault!”
“No? How about a suspicious fire in the building where one of them was living? Or stealing a police vehicle? Attacking local officers?” Lenny’s face grew stormier as he went. “They have no respect for authority or the law.”
Sandy knew what he was alluding to, having heard the scuttlebutt at Franco’s, something about a pasture and a “borrowed” police vehicle. She also knew that no charges had been filed against Matt or any of his guys, but it was obviously a touchy subject for Lenny, so she opted to concentrate on Sanctuary’s mission instead.
“They are helping veterans. Men and women willing to sacrifice everything so that people like us can live in freedom. We should be supporting them, not shunning them.”
“Not everyone can handle serving, and these guys Winston is bringing in, they’ve got issues.”
“Issues,” she repeated. “You mean, like Trace had issues?”
“We’re not talking about Trace.”
“But we are,” she insisted. “Maybe if a place like Sanctuary had been around when he came back, he could have gotten the help he needed.”
Lenny exhaled forcefully. “Nothing could have helped him. He was too far gone.”
“How can you say that? He was your friend.”
“The man who came back wasn’t the same man who’d left. Being in the Middle East changed him. I’m sorry, Sandy. I know you don’t want to believe that, but it’s the truth.”
Her chest tightened. She welcomed the anger because it overshadowed the grief, at least for a little while. “You’re right; I don’t believe it. Yes, being in the service changed him, but seeing the kind of stuff he had would change anyone. He was my brother, and if there was a chance—any chance—to save him, I would have taken it in a heartbeat.”
“Kevin’s your brother too,” Lenny said, pinning her with a challenging gaze. “How far are you willing to go for him?”
She reared back as if he’d slapped her. “That’s not fair. It’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?” he said quietly.
Tired of the conversation, Sandy got up and went back into the house, but Lenny’s words stayed with her long after.