Ridley could have stayed at the house on Sunday. He was able to worship on his own. He could put a CD in the player in his mom’s kitchen and open his Bible and have church right where he was. And yet he found himself driving into Hope Springs, looking for the community church pastored by Michael Phelps, no relation to the Olympic swimmer. He chuckled at the memory. He hoped the pastor included the same kind of dry humor in his sermons. Ridley had come to Hope Springs to hide out, to get away from the press and the gossip, and now he was risking his much desired privacy for an hour or two with other believers. But he needed that hour or two. He knew he needed it.
He managed to slip into the back pew of the sanctuary without making eye contact with anyone, but his luck didn’t last long. A man approached and introduced himself, shaking Ridley’s hand. More welcomes followed, but everyone he met seemed satisfied when he gave only his first name.
The quaint church, circa 1930s if he was any judge of architecture, still had an organ, and a plump woman in a lilac-print dress began to play it, causing members of the congregation to scatter to their pews. Soon they were all standing, hymnals in hand, and singing one of his great-grandmother’s favorite hymns, “Morning Has Broken.”
He grinned to himself, remembering the elderly woman seated in her recliner, eyes closed, palms up, greeting the day as she sang the hymn in her reedy voice. As a kid, he’d loved to spend a weekend with GeeGee Gwen. She’d been ancient—in her nineties—but sharp as a tack. She’d kept her wit right to the end of her life.
He wondered what GeeGee Gwen would think of the predicament he’d landed himself in. What advice would she have for him if she were alive today? Maybe she would have told him to develop a thicker skin. He knew he was innocent of leaking information to the opposition campaign, and his actual integrity had to matter more to him than the lies of others. He knew he hadn’t betrayed Tammy Treehorn by exposing what she’d hoped to keep hidden. He couldn’t even blame her for wanting to keep it a secret, although anybody involved in politics had to know it was almost impossible to keep anything secret nowadays.
With a small shake of his head, he shoved away the thoughts and concentrated on the words of the hymn. Eventually he would let himself analyze and decipher all that had happened in recent months. This was not the day or the hour.
After the congregation took their seats again, Ridley let his gaze roam the sanctuary while someone shared announcements. He recognized no one but the pastor, of course. How could he? Then he realized he’d hoped to catch sight of his neighbor. Not a good impulse. But not surprising either. She’d stayed on his mind after their walk the other day. He supposed it was sympathy for her loss. He’d have to be heartless not to feel sorry for her.
The offering basket came down his pew, pulling him from his wandering thoughts. After dropping in some cash, he focused his attention on the pulpit. It was easy to do since Mick Phelps preached a sermon that held Ridley’s interest through to the end. When the congregation rose to sing a closing hymn, Ridley sent up a silent thanks to God for drawing him into town. He’d needed this worship service even more than he’d believed.
As he left the sanctuary, he shook a few more hands and acknowledged a few more words of welcome with smiles and nods of his own. He was already outside the church when he heard his name called, and turned.
“Ridley,” Mick repeated as he hurried down the few steps toward him, grinning widely. “Glad to see you here.”
“Glad I came.”
“Listen, would you like to join my wife and me for Sunday dinner? It’ll be a quiet one. Just the three of us. Our daughters are visiting their grandparents in California.”
Should he accept? As if to rescue him from making a wrong decision, his mobile phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. Only a few people had this new number. He held up the index finger of his left hand while reaching for his phone with his right. He felt a jolt in his chest when he saw who was calling: Selena Wright. Out of habit, he considered answering it. Then good sense took over and he hit Decline. His gaze darted back to the pastor and good sense triumphed a second time. “I’ll have to pass today. But thanks anyway.”
“Sure thing.” There seemed to be real regret in Mick’s eyes.
The pastor could probably become a good friend, given the right circumstances. Only these weren’t the right circumstances. Ridley wasn’t in the market for new friends. He’d been let down by people he’d thought were friends. Better not to take chances.
Moments later, as he slid onto the driver’s seat of his Subaru, his phone vibrated again. He glanced at the screen. Selena again. She wouldn’t give up. “Hello.”
“Ridley, it’s me. Selena.”
“I know.” He almost asked how she’d discovered his new number. But then he remembered. He’d given it to her, about thirty minutes before she told him she never wanted to see him again. Why hadn’t he seen that coming?
“Listen, I left my sweater at your house the last time . . . the last time I was with you. But my key to your front door won’t work.” She drew a breath, then demanded, “Where are you anyway?”
“Out of town.”
“Where?”
He wanted to tell her it was none of her business where he was, but he swallowed the retort, along with the anger that rose with it.
After a few seconds of silence, she must have realized he wasn’t going to answer. “So how I do I get in?”
“You don’t get in, Selena. You’ll have to wait until I’m back in town. I’ll make sure your sweater is returned as soon as possible.”
She called him a name, and the phone went silent.
Ridley dropped the offending object onto the passenger seat, then raked the fingers of both hands through his hair, pushing down his anger a second time. He could at least be glad he’d changed the locks on his house before leaving town. Not that he believed Selena had left her sweater there. Whatever her reasons for wanting inside, it had nothing to do with an article of clothing.
He turned the key to start the engine, then drove toward home, thoughts churning once again.
He’d first met Selena Wright at a party about seven months ago. A good friend of his next-door neighbor, Selena was pretty with a quick wit and a bright laugh. She and Ridley had hit it off at once. They both liked basketball, mountain biking, and technology, to name a few things they had in common. Ridley had assumed they would go on discovering similarities. Instead, differences had begun to crop up. He’d known, long before the disaster with the Treehorn campaign surfaced, that he and Selena weren’t going to be together for the long term. He’d known it was time to end their relationship. Still, he hadn’t expected her quick wit to transform into a razor-sharp tongue, cutting him to ribbons when he was down.
Jessica left the kitchen, carrying a mug of hot cocoa in her right hand. Movement beyond the large living-room window drew her gaze in time to see a red Subaru pass by. Dust swirled down the road in its wake. Her neighbor, returning from town. She hadn’t seen Ridley since the day they’d walked together. It seemed they both preferred to keep to themselves when possible.
“And in a statement from her campaign headquarters, Ms. Treehorn, after a lengthy silence, promised to hold a press conference later this week.”
Sipping her cocoa, she looked toward the television in the corner of the room.
“Our reporter asked if staff member Ridley Chesterfield, who has been accused of leaking the files regarding the pro-life candidate’s abortion, would be present at the press conference. The representative stated that Mr. Chesterfield no longer works for the Treehorn campaign and refused any further comment.”
Jessica nearly choked on her cocoa when her neighbor—handsome, smiling—flashed onto the screen, standing beside the candidate. What on earth?
Since the news clip was over, she turned and walked to her studio, where she sat in front of her computer and opened a browser. She typed in his name. Links to articles, blog posts, and news sites filled the computer screen. She clicked the first one and began to read.
Halfan hour later, she twirled her chair away from the computer.
No wonder her neighbor had preferred not to give his last name. She didn’t know the full story of what had happened inside the political candidate’s campaign—even she could spot the many holes in the reporting—and she wasn’t completely sure what Ridley’s role had been. But she knew the internet wolves were out in force, tearing to shreds whatever and whoever they could.