Beverly Barton - Silent Killer

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Donnie said. “But we really should get going. I imagine, considering this crowd, that traffic is going to be a nightmare leaving here.”

“Call me,” Cathy told Jack, her voice little more than a whisper. A part of her longed to go with him, to forget about everything and everyone except Jack and the way she felt about him.

“Yeah, sure,” Jack said before he walked away.

Donnie came around from the back of the pew and called to his daughter. “Missy, honey, Seth and his mom are riding with us.” Then he turned to Cathy. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

She fell into step alongside Donnie, but she kept track of Jack as he made his way through the horde of people ahead of them. Before they reached the front steps, she saw Jack walking across the road to where his car was parked. He didn’t look back, not even once.

Was he angry with her? Disappointed? Hurt? It was difficult to tell exactly what Jack was thinking or feeling.

Jack shouldn’t matter so much to you, she told herself. You have enough problems to handle without adding a love affair with Jackson Perdue into the mix.

After an hour-and-a-half church service, followed by the congregation’s own prayer vigil for Bruce Kelley, Seth left with his grandparents, and Donnie insisted on driving Cathy home. Missy had remained in the car while he walked Cathy to her door, and she’d been sure he would have tried to kiss her if his daughter hadn’t been with him. If only she could feel half the attraction for Donnie that she felt for Jack, it would make her life far simpler. J.B. and Mona would approve of Donnie. Even now they were beginning to think of him as an honorary member of their family. And she suspected that Seth would approve of her dating Donnie solely because he reminded them both of Mark. Not that the two men were by any means identical, just similar.

Perhaps, in time, she could learn to care for Donnie. After all, when she’d married Mark, she hadn’t been in love with him, nor had he been in love with her. She had learned to love him, and they’d had a good life together.

But could she settle for less than being passionately in love for a second time in her life?

No, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She deserved more.

Even if she lived the rest of her life alone, it would be better than settling for less than real love.

As she unbuttoned her lavender silk blouse, Cathy kicked off her black sandals in the bedroom before walking into the bathroom. She placed the blouse in the dry-cleaner pouch she kept hanging on the back of the door. Then she stripped out of her dress slacks and peeled off her bra and panties. Feeling hot and sticky, she looked forward to a nice lukewarm shower, something to relax her and cool her off before bedtime. Temperatures were already in the low nineties, and the humidity was horrendous for this early in June. It wasn’t even officially summer, but in Alabama, summertime weather often hit in late spring.

Twenty minutes later, scrubbed clean, her hair damp and her pajamas on, Cathy headed for the kitchen. During her marriage to Mark, she had adhered to his teetotaler philosophy, but while living in Birmingham during her recovery, she had discovered the pleasures of a glass of good wine. Although not a connoisseur by any stretch of the imagination, she knew what she liked. She loved a crisp, white Zinfandel and happily poured a glass from the bottle she kept in the refrigerator.

When the doorbell rang, she glanced at the wall clock. Ten-thirty. Not late by most people’s standards, but certainly past the hour for visitors. Had Donnie taken Missy home and returned? She hoped not. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt his feelings, but she couldn’t encourage him.

She set her glass on the kitchen table and ran through the house to the bedroom. After grabbing her housecoat off the foot of her bed, she slipped into it, rushed to the front door and flipped on the porch light. The moment she recognized her visitor, she opened the door to him, her heart doing a crazy little rat-a-tat-tat number.

“Evening.” Jack stood on the porch, the overhead lamp turning his light hair to burnished gold.

“You’re stopping by sort of late, aren’t you?” Dear God, Cathy, was that the only thing you could think of to say?

He looked her up and down, taking in her damp hair and her sleeping attire. “I guess I should have called first.”

“No, it’s all right. Really.” She eased back a couple of feet and invited him in with a sweeping hand gesture.

“I could have phoned you with the news, but…well, I thought it best to tell you in person.” He stepped over the threshold.

Cathy’s heart stopped for a millisecond. “What’s wrong?”

He closed the door behind him, then looked her square in the eye. “Mike called me about ten minutes ago. Reverend Kelley died tonight, less than an hour ago.”

“Oh God, no.” Emotion welled up inside her. How foolish of her to believe that a prayer vigil attended by hundreds of people could actually keep Bruce Kelley alive.

“It’s probably better this way,” Jack said. “The guy was in horrible shape. He couldn’t have made it much longer, and he was suffering in the worst way.”

Cathy swallowed. “Mark suffered.”

“Ah, honey, don’t.”

When Jack reached out and pulled her into his arms, she went without protest, gladly letting him hold her close. Encompassed within his strong embrace, she felt safe. Her every instinct told her that this was where she belonged. With Jack, the man she had once loved more than life itself.

Jack wasn’t sure if his motives for coming here tonight to tell Cathy about Bruce Kelley’s death were totally unselfish. Maybe somewhere deep inside him, he had believed that she’d need a shoulder to lean on; maybe he’d hoped she would turn to him for comfort. Hell, he wasn’t sure of anything except at this precise moment, there was nothing more important to him than the woman he held in his arms. Cathy. His Cathy.

Damn it, man, she hasn’t been your Cathy in nearly seventeen years, if she ever was, even back then.

She’s mourning the man who replaced you in her bed and in her heart. She’s crying for Mark Cantrell. She’s hurting because she’s remembering how much he suffered before he died.

Jack couldn’t move, could barely breathe. All he could do was hold her and let her cry it out. While she trembled, sobs racking her body, he rubbed her back soothingly and pressed his cheek against the top of her head.

God damn it, he hated seeing her like this.

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, just a few feet from the front door, Cathy secure in his arms. Finally, she lifted her head from his chest and gazed up into his eyes. His body tightened. His gut clenched painfully.

“You loved him a lot, didn’t you?” Jack didn’t know why the hell he’d asked her such a stupid question. Wasn’t the answer obvious?

“No.” The one word erupted in a hoarse gasp. She shook her head gently and lowered her gaze.

He cupped her chin between his forefinger and thumb and tilted her face so that she couldn’t avoid looking right at him. “Want to tell me about it? Why you married him, why you had a nervous breakdown six months after he died, why you’re still mourning him?”

“Does any of that really matter?”

“Apparently it does, at least to you.”

“I don’t want to talk about any of that. Not tonight. And I don’t want to discuss Mark with you. It’s not fair to you or to his memory. He was a good husband, a good father, a fine human being. It wasn’t his fault that…” She turned her head and pulled away from Jack.

He followed her as she fled, catching up with her when she stopped abruptly in the middle of the living room. He came up behind her, mere inches separating their bodies, but he didn’t touch her.