The Hero's Sin

CHAPTER THREE

S ARA RUSHED BACK to the table, her dress damp from where she’d blotted up the wine. Her round trip had taken longer than expected because Johnny’s father waylaid her when she was exiting the restroom.

“Great to see you and Michael hitting it off,” Nick Pollock had said. “I get the feeling he doesn’t socialize much in the Peace Corps.”

“The Peace Corps!” Sara repeated. Why hadn’t she put that together herself when she learned of the far-flung places Michael had worked? “He never told me he was a volunteer.”

“Didn’t think he would. He’s sort of a serial volunteer. Been signing up for two-year assignments since he put himself through college. Holding down a full-time job at the time. He probably didn’t tell you that, either.”

“No,” Sara said. “But why are you telling me?”

“Because Michael’s a good man,” he’d said enigmatically, his expression suddenly serious. “Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

“Why would anyone say differently?”

He’d sighed and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Michael had it tough growing up. Did a couple of things he shouldn’t have. Angered some people. But he got through it and turned himself into somebody to be proud of.”

Stop talking in circles! she wanted to yell. Instead she thanked him for enlightening her, a sixth sense urging her to hurry back to Michael. His empty chair confirmed her intuition that he’d been about to bolt.

She surveyed the smiling couples twirling around the dance floor as the polka music played, hoping she was wrong, hoping Michael was among them. Somehow she knew she wouldn’t find him.

Marie Dombrowski spotted her and separated herself from her husband, her brows pinched together in what looked like sympathy. “Michael asked me to tell you he had to go.”

Sara must not have kept the dismay from her face, because Marie squeezed her hand. “I don’t think he wanted to leave, but another man—I didn’t recognize him but I do know he was drunk—was creating a scene. It seemed to me Michael left so there wouldn’t be trouble.”

Sara thought over what Nick Pollock had told her, but she didn’t have enough information about Michael’s past to figure out why somebody would accost him.

“He’s only been gone a few minutes,” Marie added. “If you hurry, you might be able to catch him.”

“Thanks.” Sara didn’t hesitate, heading for the exit as fast as her high heels would carry her. Before Michael disappeared, maybe forever, she at least wanted to say goodbye.

It wasn’t yet fully dark, but the outside lights were on, making it easy to spot Michael in the parking lot. Relief flooding her, she hurried down the sidewalk, then stopped dead. He wasn’t alone. A man who had at least thirty pounds on Michael was charging him. The man cocked his arm, drew his shoulder back and let his fist fly.

“No!” Sara yelled, rushing forward to stop the madness.

Michael lifted a forearm, deftly blocking the punch. Then in a lightning quick motion, he grabbed the man’s arm and twisted it around his back, effectively incapacitating him.

“Leggo,” the man groaned, obviously in discomfort, obviously drunk.

“Not until you understand me.” Michael’s low, firm voice carried toward Sara. “If you cause another scene at my friend’s wedding, I’ll make you regret it.”

He released the man’s arm and shoved him. The man stumbled backward, nearly falling before catching his balance.

“Go drink some black coffee,” Michael ordered harshly.

The man’s face, slack from too much alcohol, filled with what looked like hatred. “Go back where you came from,” he muttered. “No one wants you here.”

It looked as though the man was thinking about initiating another attack, but he rejected the notion, returning to the VFW hall on unsteady feet.

“You.” He pointed at Sara as he passed her, his finger shaky. “You should watch who you ’sociate with.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Without waiting for his response, she walked to where Michael was bending down to pick up his suit jacket from the pavement.

Michael straightened, his suit jacket in hand, and gave her a wry look. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

She looked toward the hall, confirming that the troublemaker had disappeared inside the building. “What I saw was you keeping that jerk from making trouble at your friend’s wedding.”

“I won’t argue with you there. Kenny Grieb’s bad news when he’s drunk.”

“What does he have against you?” Sara asked.

“A grudge,” Michael said, “which is why I’m leaving.”

She’d half expected him to be gone already when she came looking for him, but his declaration seemed to knock the wind from her. “What if I asked you not to go yet?”

“I wish things were different.” His eyes ran over her face like a caress. “But for your sake I should have left hours ago. I’m not exactly Mr. Popular.”

She couldn’t argue with that, but not everybody inside the hall had been hostile. Excluding the Pollocks, Michael hadn’t reached out to a single person. “You’re not exactly Mr. Congeniality either.”

He stared at her for a moment, then broke into a laugh. “Are you always this blunt?”

“Not always,” she said, “but usually.”

If she completely spoke her mind, she’d ask for details about why some people had a problem with him. Because she sensed the topic was a raw spot, she could wait until he was ready to tell her.

“Do you have a problem with an outspoken woman?” she asked.

“I have a problem with a woman jeopardizing her reputation in town by hanging out with me.”

“What reputation?” she retorted. “I just moved here. I don’t have a reputation.”

“You should be building one, and a wedding’s a good place to start.” He gestured toward the hall. “It’s not too late. Go network, make some new friends.”

“I can make friends tomorrow or the next day or the day after that,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere. But you are.”

“That’s right.” He looked toward the parking lot, then at her. If she hadn’t read regret in his gaze, she might have let him go.

“You don’t have to go until tomorrow morning, right? You don’t have anything pressing you need to do tonight? Anywhere you need to be?”

He narrowed his eyes as though it was a trick question. “No,” he said slowly.

“Then you can walk me home, because I’m leaving the reception, too.” She headed through the parking lot to the sidewalk adjacent to the street, her stomach turning somersaults at the prospect he might refuse. She didn’t know why she couldn’t let him leave just yet; she just knew that she couldn’t. “Coming?” she called over her shoulder.

She reached the sidewalk before conceding that he wasn’t following her. She took a deep breath, then turned around. He stood with his jacket in hand, his face half in shadows.

This is it, she thought, a lump forming in her throat.

This is goodbye.

“I can’t leave my car here,” he said. “Kenny Grieb knows where it’s parked.”

She released the breath she’d been holding, alleviating the strain on her lungs. Without letting him in on the relief that made her legs feel weak, she strode toward him on her high-heeled shoes.

“Then let’s move your car,” she said.

M ICHAEL FELT as though he’d been transported to an alternate universe.

After Sara directed him to a parking space in a lot adjacent to a real-estate office, they’d taken a sidewalk that led through the heart of Indigo Springs. Despite architecture dating back more than a hundred years, he barely recognized the town.

“Tell me again why we didn’t park in the block where you live,” Michael said.

“I said you could walk me home, not drive me home,” she said. A woman who knew her own mind, he thought.

Restaurants, only a few of which were familiar, were doing a brisk business. Photographers, crafters, glass blowers and painters had taken over previously abandoned storefronts. A bike shop seemed to be on every block. People who looked like tourists strolled the sidewalks.

“What happened to the sleepy town I remember?” Michael asked as they passed the red and white awning of an ice-cream shop. “This hardly seems like the same place.”

“It woke up,” Sara said. “Mostly because of the mountain-bikers and the hikers. At least, according to my real-estate agent. She said prices are low enough here for people to afford second homes.”

Even with the evidence of change all around, Michael had a tough time accepting that the heart of the town was different. Especially when they approached Abe’s General Store, a place that seemed frozen in time, right down to the red door with the hand-painted welcome sign.

Memories of his arms being roughly wrenched behind his back and the police taking him away in handcuffs came stampeding back, and he wished he was anywhere but here.

Correction: He wished they were anywhere but here.

He couldn’t regret spending time with a woman like Sara Brenneman, even though their relationship couldn’t go any further than her front door.

“Are you a mountain-biker? Is that why you moved here?” He kept his gaze straight ahead as they passed the general store, unwilling to resurrect any more bad memories.

“I moved here because I fell in love.”

Jealousy hit him hard, a ridiculous reaction, especially because he should have known a woman like her was spoken for. “You have a boyfriend?”

“I meant I fell in love with the town,” she said, laughing, and he could breathe again. “At first sight, too. I stopped to visit Penelope on the way back to Washington, D.C., from another friend’s wedding. That’s all it took.”

He waited for a car to pass before they crossed a side street to the quiet of the next block, mostly consisting of businesses that were closed for the day. “Didn’t you like living in Washington?”

“It’s the fast track I didn’t like. I lived in this great neighborhood near Capitol Hill, but spent most of my time at work. The more hours I billed, the more money the law firm made and the more chance I had of making partner.”

“Was that important to you?”

“I used to think so. I told you my dad was a navy JAG, right? Now he’s a partner at the firm where I worked. My mom’s a pediatrician. I’ve got a sister in law school and a brother in med school. Everybody’s a high achiever.”

“So what happened?”

“I woke up one night to a pounding on my door.” Her steps had slowed and he matched her more leisurely pace. “I saw a bloody, wild-eyed man through the peephole so I called 911 but didn’t open it.”

“Smart move.”

“Not really. Turned out he lived two doors down and he’d just been mugged. That’s when it hit me that I worked so many hours I couldn’t even recognize my own neighbor.”

“Not necessarily a bad thing.”

She shook her head. “For me, it was. I was so busy doing what was expected of me I didn’t think about what would make me happy. That’s having a social life and feeling like I’m part of a community.”

Once upon a time, Michael would have said he wanted to belong somewhere. But then Murray had booted him out of his great-aunt’s house and he’d learned how dangerous it was to want.

“Sounds like you’re in the right place.” He kept his voice determinedly noncommittal.

“I think so, but nobody else in my family does. They keep saying I’ll come back to my senses.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “Enough about me. How about you? You keep saying you’re leaving tomorrow, but where will you go?”

“To decompress,” he said.

A muscle in her jaw twitched, hinting she wasn’t satisfied with his short answer. It couldn’t be helped. She wouldn’t understand that the destination didn’t matter as long as it was away from here.

“There it is!” she suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hands like an excited child. “My law office.”

She indicated one of the stone row houses that lined the block. It was sandwiched between an insurance office and a dentist, across the street from a small city park that was in shadows.

“I thought I was walking you home.”

“I live on the two upper floors. It’s the coolest thing. The place is built on a hillside so the office is at street level, but the back of my second floor opens onto a private deck that has a catwalk leading to the woods.”

He glanced upward and saw a light shining in a second-floor window.

“Isn’t it perfect? Here, I’ll show you.” She took a key from her little pink evening purse, opened the heavy wood door and flipped on a light.

The setup was typical for a small office. A reception area in front with a pair of offices and a small supply room in the rear. Wood floors and crown molding ran throughout the first floor.

“I need to get it painted and buy some lamps and carpets and artwork. Oh, and get the phone company over here because the phones aren’t working. And hire an office manager. I’ve almost got it covered. I’m going shopping in Allentown tomorrow and I have a couple of job candidates coming in for interviews on Monday.”

Her words tripped over each other, and he tried to remember the last time he’d been that excited. He couldn’t. She grabbed his hand, leading him to an unusual oak receptionist’s desk shaped like a comma.

“Isn’t this great?” she asked. “The office furniture came with the place, but I was sure the previous owner would exclude this piece. It’s an antique, probably custom-made, too.”

“Beautiful,” he said, but he was referring to Sara instead of the desk. A light seemed to have switched on inside her as she showed him her office, transforming her from attractive to dazzling.

She turned to him, a sunny smile curving her lips. He tried to mask his attraction, but she must have seen it because the smile changed, its innocence fading. She looked down at their still-linked hands, then up at him. Her hand was silky and warm, the way he imagined the rest of her would feel. The air around them suddenly seemed charged.

“I don’t normally do this.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, I never do this, but would you like to come upstairs?”

His body hardened, his mind leaping ahead to the two of them naked, entwined in her bed. He dropped her hand and stuffed both of his in his pockets. “This isn’t smart, Sara. We just met. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you risked your life to save a child you’d never seen before. I know you stopped a drunk from ruining your friend’s wedding.” She raised a hand when he would have protested. “And I know you’re in the Peace Corps.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mr. Pollock.”

Tension gripped Michael’s shoulders. “What else did he say?”

“He said you went through a rough patch as a kid, but you’d rebounded. He said you were a good man.”

“He didn’t give you any details about my past?”

“Not really.” She laid a hand against his cheek, her eyes asking him to trust her. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Here was his chance to do the right thing. If he admitted responsibility for Chrissy’s death, she’d never look at him with respect and admiration again. She thought he was a hero. A hero! It was almost laughable.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. All he managed to say was, “I’m not the man you think I am.”

“Then you don’t think highly enough of yourself,” she said and kissed him.

He had plenty of time to draw back, but he remained in place. Her breath was sweet, her lips soft, her hands at his nape electrifying. His pulse quickened, the passion he’d been keeping carefully in check soaring to the surface.

He should stop this. He’d spent only part of a night in her company, but making love with her wasn’t something he’d be able to take lightly.

She snaked her hands around his neck and pulled him closer, molding her body against his. She opened her mouth in a blatant invitation for him to deepen the kiss. He couldn’t refuse, his mouth mating with hers as he breathed in her scent.

His hands roamed over her hair, her back, her hips as he kissed her with as little control as the teenage boy he used to be. This was madness. Absolute madness. He hadn’t felt so out of control in years, not since he used to wait for Chrissy to sneak out of her house and come to him.

And look how that had turned out.

If Sara knew what had happened to Chrissy, she wouldn’t let him kiss her. She’d never again allow him to get close enough to touch her.

With a supreme act of will he broke off the kiss and pulled away from her, listening to the mingled sounds of their harsh breathing. She rested her head against his rapidly beating heart for a moment before stepping out of his arms. He felt immediately bereft.

She took a step toward a stairway that led to her home. To her bed. Her smile was shy. “Are you coming?”

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the tempting picture she made. But he could still see her, as though her image was imprinted on the insides of his eyelids. He’d probably always be able to conjure up the way she looked right now.

He swallowed, tasting regret, and opened his eyes. “I already told you, Sara. I want to, but I can’t.”

Her smile faltered but didn’t disappear altogether. “Sure, you can. I already know you’re leaving in the morning. You won’t be taking advantage of me.”

“This isn’t you, Sara. Didn’t you just say you never have one-night stands?”

“Maybe it won’t be just one night. You have friends in town. Maybe you’ll come back to visit.”

He shook his head. “I won’t.”

“Then you won’t. I’m a big girl. I accept that. I know what I’m doing.”

Maybe so, but she didn’t know who she’d be doing it with.

Tell her about Chrissy, a voice inside his head urged.

In the end, all he could do was present an argument she couldn’t refute.

“I’ll probably kick myself for this, but I can’t make love to you one day and disappear from your life the next.”

She bit her lip, her disappointment as clear as his regret. “I suppose I should thank you for that, but I don’t think I can.”

“I understand.” He stepped forward, laid four fingers against the smooth curve of her cheek. “Goodbye, Sara.”

He was halfway out the front door before her voice stopped him. “Michael.”

He turned around. She looked almost ethereally beautiful standing in the empty office in front of the antique desk she’d enthused about.

“Mr. Pollock was right,” she said. “You are a good man.”

He didn’t even have the courage to refute that.

T HE NEXT MORNING Michael trudged up the narrow flight of stairs that led from Aunt Felicia’s basement to the main part of the house, carrying a cardboard box of things he didn’t want.

Old clothes that would no longer fit. High-school report cards and test papers that didn’t do him proud. A tattered baseball glove he’d found lying discarded in a field when he was a teenager.

He’d already decided to donate the stuff to a thrift store. He didn’t need any reminders of Indigo Springs when he was gone.

The steps ended at a cheerfully decorated country kitchen that smelled of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. A plate of them sat on the counter near where Aunt Felicia stood between two rows of white cabinets. She hadn’t yet changed from the blue dress she’d worn to church.

“Did you find everything?” She wrung her hands, betraying her uneasiness. They’d barely exchanged two sentences when he’d arrived before he asked about his unwanted belongings and she directed him to the basement.

“I’ve got it all unless there’s more than one box.”

“No.” More hand-twisting. “Just the one.”

“Then I’ll get out of your way.”

“I made cookies after church,” she blurted, halting his progress. “Would you like one?”

It was well known his great-aunt liked to bake, but he was surprised she’d come straight home and made the cookies. Maybe she baked something every Sunday. The ultimate homemaker, she seemed to enjoy doing the things that made a house a home.

“Sure,” he said, because it seemed rude to refuse. He carried the box to the table and set it down before taking a cookie. He bit into it, the gooey, chocolate taste bringing back one of the rare pleasures of his childhood. “It’s good.”

She half smiled, the compliment seeming to please her. “How was the wedding?”

“Fine.” He finished off the rest of the cookie. “Johnny’s a lucky guy.”

“I heard…” She stopped, started again. “I heard you didn’t stay long.”

So the locals were already gossiping about him. He’d been up most of the night, second-guessing himself for not accepting Sara’s invitation. But he’d done the right thing. He couldn’t risk having somebody spot him leaving her house at an odd hour.

“I was at the wedding long enough.” He noticed the handle of a cabinet door was loose and thought about offering to fix it, then changed his mind, knowing that would only prolong a visit that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. “I should get going.”

Aunt Felicia finally moved, only to cut off his exit from the kitchen. “Could you, um, look at something for me first?”

The loose handle?

“All right,” he said.

She picked up a manila envelope from her kitchen table and wordlessly handed it to him. The envelope was stamped Registered Mail and contained the return address of a local Indigo Springs bank. The first paper he pulled out was a Notice of Intent to Foreclose. A letter stated that Aunt Felicia was several months behind on her loan payments.