Nancy Warren - Aftershocks

There was no possible way she could explain her error to this angry, implacable man. She saw now that she didn’t deserve him, anyway. Not after what she’d done. Talk about going against your own principles.

Sadly, she took the tape recorder and placed it in her bag. The only personal items she wanted to take home were the pictures Dylan had drawn for her, but knowing how Patrick must feel about her right now, she doubted he’d want her even to touch his son’s artwork. She had her dragon hanging at home on her fridge. At least she could take that one with her as a bittersweet reminder of all she’d lost. Correction-all she’d thrown away.

“There’s nothing,” she said sadly, and turned for the door. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m just so sorry.” She wouldn’t cry. Not here and not now. Later. When she was home, she was going on the crying jag to end all crying jags. Until then, she’d hold it together.

A hand grabbed her shoulder before she made it to the door.

“Why?” he demanded, as though he couldn’t help himself. “I need to know why.”

“I can’t explain,” she said, and it was true. Even now, she couldn’t bring herself to expose her uncle. She still felt the heavy burden of gratitude for what he and her aunt had done for her. And maybe a little pity for the pain Uncle Cecil must have been suffering when he strayed. And what Patrick had said earlier was true for her, as well. If she were the woman of high character she’d believed herself to be, she never would have agreed to take on such an unsavory task. She’d been a fool, but she’d been a dishonest fool, and for that she’d pay a heavy price. “I’m sorry.”

And she left. She had no idea whether he followed her or not, because she walked so fast she verged on a trot, down the wide stairs, across the marble foyer, out the double doors and to the parking area. And she never looked back.

Not until she was home.

Then she kicked off her shoes, and before so much as taking off her jacket, she went and got her toolbox. It was pretty much an apartment-dwelling single woman toolbox, with one of those screwdrivers that had about a hundred changeable heads, a pair of pliers and a hammer.

It was the hammer she wanted.

Panting with anger, despair and chagrin, she grabbed the tape recorder out of her bag and marched back outside to the asphalt drive. She flicked the tape out of the recorder and placed it on the ground, then she hammered it, again and again, until the plastic covering was shattered and the shiny brown tape that spilled in messy coils was twisted and mashed and had dirt embedded in it.

Tears were running down her face, and she was sobbing so hard she was having trouble breathing, but she wasn’t finished yet. She took the hammer to the metal recorder next and bashed away at that until it looked as though it had been melted in a fire. Not content, she pounded at it until it broke into little pieces.

She swept everything up and put the whole mess in the garbage. She wasn’t finished with the tape, though. She went back inside for a pair of shears and cut the tape into little pieces. She then found an old metal pail and went back out with her barbecue lighter and burned as much as she could, not worrying about the toxic smoke. Only then did she drop the whole mess, pail and all, into the garbage.

Then she went back inside, locked the doors, stomped into her bedroom, threw herself fully clothed onto the bed, and sobbed.

The phone rang at some point while she was immersed in grief and self-loathing, but she ignored it. Later, she padded out to the kitchen for a glass of water and played back her voice mail. The call had been from her Uncle Cecil. He’d sounded old and sad and he’d apologized.

She erased the message and then pulled the plug on her phone. She turned away, and as she did, her gaze alighted on the picture Dylan had drawn of the dragon.

Tears leaked out of her all over again as she stared at the drawing that had made her so happy, and now made her so sad.

She managed to brush her teeth and get into her nightclothes and that was it. The rest of the night was spent torturing herself with the knowledge of how much she’d hurt Patrick and his children.

Although she didn’t sleep at all, the next morning she felt calmer and able to make a decision.

She was leaving Courage Bay as soon as possible.

She brewed herself some coffee, padding around in her bare feet and cataloguing everything she had to do. It wasn’t much. Her rent was paid until the end of the month. She’d call the landlord and pay an extra month’s rent in lieu of notice. Since she hadn’t even brought a lot of stuff with her, she could pack, clean the place, have her utilities cut off and be on the road before nightfall.

She didn’t even know where she was going, and she didn’t much care.

Somewhere she’d find another job, and another home, and she’d start all over again. Yes, she thought with a sniff, she’d leave Courage Bay -and her heart-behind her.

PATRICK MADE IT HOME in time to tuck his kids into bed and read Fiona a story. When he recalled his earlier foolish hope that Briana would be here to read Fiona her new storybook, he felt his heart break all over again. This time not for himself, but for Fiona and Dylan, who’d latched on to Briana with the same naive hopes he’d so blithely held.

He wanted to break something, to rail and rant and throw things.

How could any woman be so calculating? So damned uncaring that she’d hurt not only the man who loved her but two innocent children who were also starting to care for her? And how could he have been such a fool?

After the kids were asleep, he helped himself to a rare Scotch and sat in the dark living room staring out the window. If the children weren’t in the house, he’d probably drink the entire bottle of Glenfiddich. He smiled wryly. At least his kids were preventing him from a nasty hangover in the morning.

They’d do something else for him, too. They’d pull him through this. They’d got through Janie’s death, the three of them, and they could sure as hell get over the defection of a calculating manipulative woman who’d set out to destroy his career.

He thought about that, too, while he sipped the fiery liquid and stared out into the night. His precious career. He’d probably lose it, once Briana and her uncle went public with that tape. There’d be some tough times ahead. He was furious again, with Briana and with himself, that his children would suffer for his indiscretion. Not Fiona so much. She and her friends were too young to understand. But Dylan would have a hard time at school.

He rubbed his face in his hands. He’d never been a quitter, but for the sake of his children, maybe he should make a new start, move somewhere different. He’d paid off the house with Janie’s life insurance money and he had some savings. They’d be fine. He could make a new start for his family, find a new job, a new home with no memories.

And yet, good things had happened in this house, as well as bad. His family was here. O’Sheas had lived in Courage Bay for over a hundred years. He’d been a fool and he’d face up to that. But was he going to run away?

Hell, no.

On that determined note, he went to bed, though he really wondered why he bothered. His hurt was too fresh, his anger too raw, so he tossed and turned and finally got up and wrote a speech. Yet another passionate Mayor Patrick O’Shea goes to the people appeal, only this one was more in the line of crisis management.

Damage control, Archie would call it.

When the first few streaks of dawn lit the sky, he decided to call it morning and got into the shower. By the time Mrs. Simpson arrived at seven-thirty, he’d gone through the better part of two pots of coffee, had read the paper cover to cover, and written Briana a letter. Two, in fact. He’d torn up both of them, but he felt better for expressing some of the hurt and anger and disbelief that raged within him.