Once a Marine

When he saw the amount of his tip, Alex’s eyebrows disappeared behind dark, wavy bangs. “Whoa, this is way too much!”

“Nonsense.” She would have paid twice the price to avoid leaving the town house to shop for herself. “You’re getting your license in just a few months. I’m sure you can use a little extra cash.”

“Well, if you say so.” He tucked the bill into his back pocket. Brightening, he added, “Mom says I can drive her car if I pay my share of the insurance.”

“See? There you go!”

Alex nodded, but it seemed there was something more on his mind than groceries and tip money. “Could I... Ah... Can I... Would you get mad if I asked you something?”

He’d never been one to pry—unlike his mother, who thought nothing of asking a person’s weight, salary and far more personal information.

“I promise not to get mad,” Summer assured him.

Alex slid a four-color, glossy flyer from the front pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. “Have you ever thought about taking some classes?” he began, tapping it on his thigh. “To help you deal with, ah, you know, what happened to you?”

Of course she’d considered it. What person in her shoes wouldn’t have! If she’d heard “Stop living in the past” once, she’d heard it a hundred times, from her parents, her orthopedist, her best friend, Justin, and the therapist she’d left after only four sessions. Summer knew each of them had her best interests at heart, but that didn’t make their advice more palatable.

“Maybe you could just talk to Zach,” Alex continued, handing her the pamphlet. “I bet he could help you.”

Help me what? she wondered, pretending to read the flyer.

“’Cause Mom’s right. You’re too young and too pretty to spend so much time in here, all alone.”

Alex leaned both elbows on the kitchen’s bar counter. “Did I ever tell you how I used to be scared of, well, just about everything?”

On more than one occasion, Rose had mentioned Alex’s troubles with bullies. But Summer didn’t want him to know that his mom couldn’t be trusted with sensitive information. In the year since she’d moved next door to the Petersons, Summer had watched as one by one, his fears and inhibitions fell away, all thanks to this Zach person.

“I know how it feels to be scared. Not the same kind of scared as you were when...” His voice trailed off, but he quickly got back on track. “I just know Zach could help you. He’s a cool dude. And amazing.”

It had been a conscious decision to keep the details of the attack to herself. The only person who knew the whole sordid story was Richard O’Toole, and that was only because—

“If you’re worried about being alone with Zach, I promise to stay with you. At least at first. If you decide to talk to him, that is, to find out how he can help you feel less, y’know, scared all the time.”

More scared than she felt even thinking about calling Alex’s friend? That didn’t seem possible. Summer closed the flyer and slid it onto the counter, hoping Alex hadn’t noticed her trembling hands.

He flexed both biceps. “I wasn’t kidding when I said Zach is amazing. He taught me how building muscles helps build self-confidence. Did you see the Karate Kid movie? Mom made me watch it with her the other night. Thought I’d hate it, but I didn’t. That old guy was right,” he added, tapping a temple. “The bullies get you here long before they get you here.” Smirking, he gave himself a fake punch to the jaw.

But...her bully had snuck up behind her, grabbed her ponytail and... Summer cringed inwardly.

“Well, I better go. Midterms are coming up, and I have a ton of studying to do. See you in a couple of days?”

“You bet. I’ll email the list and credit card payment to the City Market.” She walked with him to the door. “Thanks, kiddo. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He shook his head. “Way better than you’re doing now, I’ll bet.”

“What!” A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “That’s just about the silliest thing I’ve heard all week!”

“Mom says I’m an enabler. That if I quit running your errands, you’d have to get out of this place.”

Why couldn’t Rose just mind her own business!

“Nothing could be further from the truth,” Summer blurted, heart hammering with dread. “I’d only have to find someone else to pick up and deliver my groceries, so...”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, but you do have a choice. It’s like Zach told me when I first signed up for lessons—you don’t have to live this way.”

She was half tempted to arrange a meeting with the Amazing Zach, just so she could see what a perfect man looked like.

He paused in the doorway. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Sure. Of course.” Anything, she thought, if it means you won’t quit.

“Will you at least think about talking to Zach?”

“For the first time, I’m glad you aren’t my kid,” she joked. “I don’t know how your mom says no to you!”

“Believe me, she says no. A lot.” A relieved smile brightened his young face. “Does that mean you’ll call him?”

“Yes, I’ll call him.”

“Cool. Later!” he said, closing the door behind him.

He’d been gone less than a minute when the phone rang.

Richard O’Toole’s name flashed on the screen. How odd that he’d come to mind just moments ago. Summer hadn’t talked to the detective since that day in court when, because she couldn’t provide a positive identification and her attacker had left no DNA to link him to the rape and battery charges, prosecutors were forced to charge him with Class 5 Felony Theft. He’d served two years in the Denver County Jail, but only because the cops found Summer’s wallet and three more in his jacket when they picked him up.

“Hello, Detective.”

He chuckled. “All these years with caller ID, and I still feel like whoever I’m calling is a mind reader.” A pause, and then, “So how are you, Miss Lane?”

“I’m fine. And please, call me Summer.”

“Summer. Right.” He cleared his throat. “I, ah, I promised to call you when Samuels was released.”

Her pulse quickened. “I was afraid you might say that.”

“He’s due to hit the streets next week.”

Next week!

O’Toole must have heard her gasp. “Now, now, there’s no need to panic,” he added quickly. “I did some checking, and the kid really cleaned up his act in there. Earned his GED, put in a lot of hours with the jail’s headshrinker, did some serious rehab and got—”

“Wait. Don’t tell me. He got Jesus. Isn’t that what they all say?”

“Yeah. Pretty much. That, and ‘I’m innocent!’ or ‘I’ve been framed!’ Look, Summer, I don’t blame you for being cynical. What happened to you was...”

Why the hesitation? Was he picturing her during their initial interview at the hospital? Or was he thinking about how she’d testified from a wheelchair, instead of on the witness stand, because even after two surgeries and months of physical therapy, she still couldn’t walk unassisted? If she told him that she still limped slightly, and that it might require another operation to repair the deep gash Samuels had carved into her cheek, would it give him just cause to keep that maniac in jail, where he belonged?

“Do you have any idea where he’ll go?” she said instead. “Does he have a job? An apartment?”

“He’s moving in with his grandmother. According to my sources, she’s on the Denver bus line, which will make it easy for him to get to and from work until he earns enough to buy a car and get a place of his own.”

“Well, isn’t that just peachy. I’m so happy for him. He’s got his whole life all cleaned up, literally and figuratively.”

While I’m a prisoner in my own home.

She glanced at the flyer Alex had left on the kitchen table. A prisoner of my own making, she admitted. How had her young friend put it? You do have a choice. You don’t have to live this way.

“I doubt he’ll bother you,” O’Toole said. “But if he does...”

“I know, I know,” came her sarcastic reply. “I should feel free to call, anytime. And you’ll come running to my defense while I hit my knees and pray you arrive before he has a chance to finish what he started.”

A pang of guilt shot through her. It wasn’t O’Toole’s fault that she’d become a self-pitying, scared-of-her-own-shadow hermit.

“That wasn’t fair. I have no right to take things out on you. You’re the man who caught Samuels and gathered enough evidence to help prosecutors put him away, even if it was only for a short time. And you kept your promise to warn me when...when he was released.” And she was behaving like an ungrateful brat. “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it.

“No need to apologize. I get it.”

Summer hadn’t been his first victim of violent crime, so of course he got it.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said. “I only wish I could do more.”

Short of providing her with a rock-solid guarantee that Samuels wouldn’t make the trip from Denver to Vail to exact revenge, ever, what more could he do?

She remembered that the last time they spoke, O’Toole had just found out his wife was pregnant. He’d been ecstatic, but tried hard to hide his enthusiasm because of all Summer had gone through.

“So is the new baby a boy or a girl?”

“Boy. Arrived December 23.” He sounded surprised that she’d asked. And why wouldn’t he be, considering the way she’d moped and sniffled all through the interview process, the way she was still feeling sorry for herself, even after all these months.

She pictured a chubby-cheeked baby boy with fat, dimpled fingers wrapped around O’Toole’s beefy thumb, and thought of her doctor’s gloomy prognosis. “It’s too soon to know for sure,” he’d said. “But you should prepare yourself for the possibility that you might never have children of your own.”

Summer forced a smile and took a deep breath. “What a lovely Christmas present.”

“You can say that again! And the little guy got here just in time to legitimize a nice tax deduction.”

During a break on the day he’d testified against Samuels, she’d overheard O’Toole on the phone, assuring his wife that he’d give serious thought to a promotion that would take him off the streets and keep him safely behind a desk.

“Did you accept that promotion you were up for?”

“You bet I did. Took some getting used to, but the wife and I both sleep better.”

After another moment of small talk and a final reminder for her to call him anytime she felt the need to, they wished each other well and hung up. It was nearly suppertime, and thanks to Alex, Summer had a pizza in the freezer. She set the oven to 400 degrees and, while waiting for it to heat up, flicked on the kitchen TV.

A news story filled the screen: a young woman had been brutally attacked and left for dead in Chicago. Her story, except that Summer had been attacked after recording a commercial for a Denver car dealership.

“It’s a miracle she survived,” the anchorman was saying. Had the woman’s assailant subdued her by grabbing a handful of long hair, the way Samuels had?

In the chrome finish of the toaster, Summer caught sight of her chin-length hair. She’d badgered Justin into giving her a boy cut before she’d been released from the hospital, but had kept it a little longer since. Now when she took the time to style it—which was rare, since she never went anywhere—the side curls almost hid the scar on her cheek.

Her cell phone pinged, making her jump. She opened the text from her dad.

We missed our plane, so Mom and I are taking a flight out in two days. That gives you plenty of time to make reservations so the three of us can go skiing when we get there!

She typed back a response.

Can’t wait. Love you guys!

Her message was only half-true. Summer tensed, thinking of the lectures they’d subject her to when they learned she wouldn’t be joining them on the slopes. That she’d only been out of the house twice—both times to see her orthopedist—since they’d left to film a movie in Africa. Any day now, they’d stand face-to-face with the truth about who she’d allowed herself to become.

Oh, she’d kept up with physical therapy—what else was there to do, all alone in her house every day!—but she hadn’t been outside, not even to pick up the mail or newspaper at the community box on the corner. She eased the guilt by telling herself that her parents were actors, accustomed to disappointment. But that frustration had come in the form of producer-and director-delivered rejections. Finding out that she’d deliberately misled them, no matter the reason, was a completely different kind of distress, and she knew it.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” her mom had said as she packed for the trip to Botswana, “but your dad and I miss the plucky risk-taker you were before the accident.”

Accident, indeed. If they couldn’t deal with the facts, how did they expect her to face them?

Again, Alex’s words echoed in her head: you don’t have to live this way.

The oven beeped, telling her it had finished preheating. She slid the pizza onto the top rack, set the timer and changed the channel. Not even watching a young man trying to coax his aging mother to give up years’ worth of hoarded possessions could distract her from Alex’s wise advice. The boy was right. She couldn’t stay in this house forever.

Summer combed her fingers through her bangs. It had become a nervous habit, like feeling sorry for herself and hiding from the world. Things needed to change, and the sooner, the better.

She grabbed the flyer. What could it hurt, she thought, picking up the phone, to talk to the Amazing Zach?

CHAPTER THREE

ALEX PRESSED THE receiver to his chest and waved his boss closer to the reception counter. Zach draped a towel around his neck, using the corner to blot perspiration from his upper lip. “What’s up, buddy?”

“Remember that lady I told you about? Well,” he said, pointing at the phone’s mouthpiece, “this is her!”

Like a one-man PR firm, Alex had brought clients of all genders, sizes and ages to Zach’s studio. “You’ve told me about lots of ladies,” he said, grinning. “Help me out here, kid.”

“Summer Lane. You know, the one who lives next door to Mom and me? Who’s afraid to come out of her house ’cause she was attacked couple years ago?”

Oh. That one. What kind of people named their daughter Summer? “Hippies!” his dad would say. Zach pictured a long-haired, cringing spinster, darting from window to window, checking locks and peeking at the world through dusty Venetian blinds.

“She wants to ask you a couple questions. About signing up for classes, I hope.” He put the phone back up to his ear. “Hey, Summer, Zach is—”

Based on the sudden disappointment on the boy’s face, Zach could only assume the poor old thing had changed her mind.

“No, wait! Please don’t hang up, Summer, he’s standing right here!”

Alex thrust the phone into Zach’s hand. “Go easy on her, will ya? Mom says she’s kinda fragile.”

Fragile. The very word Zach’s mom had used to describe Libby right after her ordeal. But unlike the woman on the phone, Libby bounced back quickly, due in part to the unwavering support of friends and family...and her own stubborn determination to put the nightmare behind her. He knew next to nothing about this Summer person, but from what little Alex had told him, Zach guessed she wasn’t made of the same sturdy stuff.

“Miss Lane? Zach Marshall here.” He caught a distant glimpse of himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the back of the room. What are you smiling about, you big idiot. She can’t see you. “What can I do for you?” he said, putting his back to his reflection.

“You’ll probably think I’m being ridiculous,” she began, “but I don’t know enough about your studio—or self-defense, for that matter—to even voice an intelligent question. What I do know is that Alex speaks very highly of you. And that he swears that what you’ve taught him has improved every area of his life.”

That smooth, sultry voice sure didn’t go with his image of a cringing spinster. She’d roused his curiosity, for sure.

“Just so happens Wednesday is our slow day,” he said. “If you’re not busy now, c’mon down. I’ll give you the nickel tour, and do my best to answer whatever ques—”

Alex heaved a frustrated sigh and slapped a palm over his eyes. “She never leaves her house,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Not ever. Remember?”

“Trust me,” Zach mouthed.

“On second thought,” he said into the phone, “I have a better idea. Alex needs some behind-the-wheel time before his big driver’s test. How about we drive over, pick you up and bring you back here. There’s a small class starting in about an hour. You could watch, and maybe that’ll answer some of your questions.”

“I, well, but...”

Alex leaned closer and said into the mouthpiece, “Say yes, Summer. Please? I could use the driving practice. You’ll be doing me a really, really big favor.”

Her sigh filtered into Zach’s ear. Frustration? Angst? Uncertainty? Not that it mattered. Patience had been the main ingredient in Libby’s recovery. That, and an ample supply of tenacity. Maybe Miss Lane had both, and just didn’t know it. Yet.

Alex, palm extended and fingers wiggling, asked for the phone, and Zach gladly handed it over. He had no patience and very little pity for people who didn’t at least try.

“If we leave right now,” the boy told her, “we can be there in ten minutes.” He hung up and grabbed his parka from the hook beside the door. “Let’s make tracks, before she changes her mind.”

“She said yes?”

Alex shrugged. “She didn’t say no...”

Zach told his assistant, Emma, that he’d be back within the hour then tossed Alex his keys to his pickup. As the teen unlocked the doors, Zach shrugged into his jacket. “Don’t make me regret this, okay?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. My entire driving future is riding on it.” Alex laughed and climbed in behind the wheel. “Hey. That’s a pun.” He stuck the key into the ignition. “My entire driving future is riding on it. Get it?”

“Yeah, I get it. And my good-driver insurance policy is riding on it, too, so keep that in mind.”

Zach buckled his seat belt. “To be honest, I’m not half as worried about what you’ll do behind the wheel as I am about what she’ll do when we get there.”

“Do? What could she do?”

“Oh, I dunno. She could meet us at the door, brandishing a shotgun, for starters.”

“Summer?” Alex laughed. “No way. She won’t even squish a spider.”

Probably afraid to, Zach thought as Alex backed out of the parking space.

A car horn blared, and the boy slammed on the brakes.

“Crazy kid!” an elderly man bellowed, shaking his fist. “Where’d you get your license, in a bubble gum machine?”

Alex’s shoulders slumped, and Zach raised his eyebrows. “You know what you did wrong, right?”

“Didn’t check the mirrors.” Smiling sheepishly, he added, “Sorry. Won’t happen again. Promise.”

“Let’s hope not. Your entire driving future is riding on it, remember.”

For the duration of the short trip, Alex kept his word, even while chattering about the attack that turned Summer Lane into a recluse. The kid didn’t have many details, though, so Zach decided that tonight he’d fire up the laptop, see what he could find out about her online. Wouldn’t it be faster and easier to ask her?

Alex took the corner a little sharply, distracting Zach from the question.

“Sorry. I’ll be more careful at the next corner,” Alex said. “You think we’ll get that snow they’re calling for?”

Zach held tight to the grab handle. “Probably, but I hope not.”

As Alex pulled into her driveway, Zach saw the blinds beside her front door snap shut. Had she been standing there, watching, since the kid hung up the phone?

Alex got out of the truck first, and waved as he approached the town house. “Hey, Summer,” he called. “It’s us. Zach and me.”

He whispered to Zach, “She’ll never leave here, but this is a start.”

The door opened slowly, and there it was again, that lovely, amazing voice.

“Please,” she said from somewhere in the shadows. “Come in.”

“You’ve been baking again, haven’t you,” Alex said, heading straight for the kitchen.

Baking again? Libby made things from fabric and yarn. Sweaters. Mittens. Curtains and throw pillows, and called her craft projects “coping mechanisms.” Did the oven serve the same purpose for Summer?

“Man, oh man,” Alex said around a mouthful of cookie. “I think these are your best ever!”

“Thanks,” she said. “Have as many as you like. I can’t eat them all by myself.”

For half a second, silence. Then all three laughed, because Alex had stuffed one cookie into his mouth, and held one in each hand.

“Name’s Marshall. Zach Marshall,” he said, offering his hand. “But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

For a minute there, it didn’t look like she’d reciprocate. He felt awkward, his hand dangling in midair. When at last she accepted his greeting, he noticed a slight tremor in her cool-to-the-touch fingertips. Cold hands, warm heart? If the warmth glowing in her eyes and smile was any indicator, the answer was yes.

“Summer Lane,” she said, and quickly folded both arms over her chest. “But I expect you already knew that, too.”

At the moment, Zach didn’t know much, except that he liked her. Or was pity the more accurate word? “Aw, Zach,” Alex mumbled. “You really gotta try one of these. They’re excellent, man. Excellent.”

Every thread of common sense in him said, look at Alex. Look at the cookies. You’ve seen gorgeous women before, so stop gawking at her!

She must have thought he was staring at the slightly raised pink scar that ran the length of her left cheek, because she cupped her chin in her palm and hid it behind her fingers. What other reminders—physical and emotional—had her attacker left her with?

“There are soft drinks in the fridge,” she said. “Or I could fix you a cup of coffee. Or tea. Or hot chocolate?” Summer pointed at the coffeemaker on the counter and the carousel that held a colorful variety of pods.

He didn’t need a degree in psychology to know Alex was right. She wouldn’t leave the town house today. Maybe not tomorrow, either. Asking her to consider checking out the studio would only add to her unease. Maybe she’d let her guard down enough that he could show her a few basic moves right here in her living room. Zach made note of her stiff-backed stance and nervous smile. Or maybe not.

“I told my assistant we wouldn’t be gone long,” he said, “but coffee sounds great.”

As she made her way to the other side of the bar counter, Zach noticed her limp. Alex had mentioned multiple surgeries to repair a shattered femur. Not an easy injury to recover from; he’d learned that while visiting guys he’d served with who’d been shot or who’d stepped on IEDs.

While she added water to the machine, he remembered that Libby’s attacker had been high on PCP, and the slick defense attorney blamed the drug, not his client, for the crime. The judge gave her attacker a choice: rehab facility or prison. Naturally, he chose treatment. The punishment didn’t fit the crime, in Zach’s opinion. If asked to explain his harsh judgment, he would have said “The guy hurt my kid sister! Hang him by his heels!” As it turned out, the guy punished himself. Months after being released, he died of a heroin overdose.

When Summer turned to face him, her smile faded, like the smoke from a spent match. Evidently, the memory of what had happened to Libby was still very fresh, and his anguish was written all over his face. He half expected her to shrink back in fear, but to her credit, Summer held her ground and, mug in hand, asked how he liked his coffee.