Out of Nowhere, page 6
She looked disappointed in his lack of enthusiasm but didn’t comment on it. “Has anyone told you when you’ll be released?”
“Tomorrow, possibly. If not, then the day after.”
“Be sure to give me plenty of notice. I’ll be here to drive you home. Your precious Jag is already safe in the garage. I handled that for you.”
He hadn’t even thought about the retrieval of his car from the dusty fairground parking lot.
Shauna was telling him that their housekeeper had stocked the kitchen with his favorite foods. Shauna had canceled his upcoming dental cleaning and an appointment with his tailor. When she wound down, he said, “Thanks for seeing to all that.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I want you back home. I want you well soon.”
“Me too.”
She leaned down and brushed a dry kiss on his lips, then checked her watch. “I need to get a move on. I’ve booked an interview with the minister who’s going to officiate that funeral. God help him. Literally. I mean, what do you say?”
Having only half listened to everything else she’d been rattling off, upon hearing that, he was instantly alert. “The little boy’s funeral?”
Shauna picked up her oversize bag and carried it across the room to the counter where the sink was. “They’ve already announced that it’ll be a private service. Media will be kept a block away from the church. Of all the stories, his is the most poignant because of his age.” She moved aside the garish bouquet to better access the mirror above the sink and began to tweak her hair.
Calder cleared his throat. “Do you know if they have other children?”
“There is no ‘they.’ The mother is a single parent, and whoever the father was”—she spread on lip gloss—“is no longer in the picture. Charlie—not short for Charles, just Charlie—was her only child.”
She capped the lip gloss and zipped the tube into a cloth pouch, which she dropped into her bag, then slid the wide strap onto her shoulder. Turning back to him, she said, “I’ve tried twice to speak with the mother—”
“What’s her name?”
“Portman. Elle Portman.” Her glossy lips twisted into a frown. “She’s got this harpy taking her calls. So far I’ve gotten nowhere with her. Not even when I invoked your name.”
He almost came up out of the bed. “Invoked my name?”
“I thought if she knew of our connection—”
“Don’t do that again.”
She opened her mouth as though to come back with a retort to his brusque order but must have thought better of it. She waited several beats, then said in a calm and level voice, “I didn’t think you would object.”
“But you didn’t ask, did you? And I object a hell of a lot.”
“I told the woman on the phone that I was a close personal friend of yours. That’s all. If it makes you feel any better, your name didn’t make a dent. She hung up on me.”
“Can you blame her?”
Again she seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, when instead she looked at her watch again. “I’ve stayed too long. You look tired. I’ll check in on you later. Get some rest.”
Then she was gone, eagerly on her way to prepare for her coverage for a curious public of the private funeral of the two-year-old that he couldn’t save.
Chapter 7
Elle pulled into a metered parking slot in front of the precinct office of the sheriff’s department. She’d been asked to appear there at three o’clock. The flags out front were flying at half-staff in honor of the casualties of the Fairground shooting.
It had occurred a week ago today. Over the course of those seven days, it had achieved capitalization status in print and had been designated with a hashtag on social media. News networks were still doing follow-up stories.
But for those not directly involved, it was a notch in history. Millions of people had resumed their everyday lives as though in Elle Portman’s universe there hadn’t been a catastrophic event on the scale of the sun burning out.
She’d arrived ahead of the assigned time, so she let her car idle while she gave herself a few minutes to reflect on the past week.
Glenda had returned to work this morning, but only after Elle had insisted. When pressed, Glenda had admitted that time-sensitive matters were demanding her attention at Foster Real Estate.
“But I hate for you to go to that meeting alone. What do you think it’s about? Did Compton give you a hint?”
“No. When she called this morning, she began by apologizing for imposing on me during this ‘difficult time’ but asked if I could meet with her and Perkins again this afternoon.”
“Asked. But was it optional?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe you should take a lawyer with you, Elle. I could make some calls.”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that.”
Still looking dubious, Glenda had said, “If you change your mind, I only need a moment’s notice. Otherwise, I’ll see you back at the house, say sixish? I’m sick of all those casseroles people have brought, so I’ll pick up something for our dinner. What would rev up your appetite?”
Elle had been waiting for an opening like that. She’d placed her hand on her friend’s arm. “Thank you, but I don’t need you to stay over again tonight.”
Glenda had squinted one eye and appraised Elle with the shrewdness of a diamond merchant. “Don’t need me to or don’t want me to?”
“Please understand. Since the shooting, I’ve been surrounded by people. Well-meaning, caring, compassionate people, and I’m so grateful for their many kindnesses. But I haven’t had any time alone.”
“You mean time alone with Charlie,” Glenda had said softly. “I get it.” She placed her hand on top of Elle’s where it rested on her arm. “Say the word. You know I’ll come running.”
Her friend had been indispensable, but Elle was desperate to be by herself in her house among Charlie’s things, surrounded by his spirit. She wanted and needed to reminisce in solitude, to sob without courteous restraint, to grieve in private.
Sandwiched between her parents and Glenda in the front pew of the chapel, she had endured her son’s funeral with fragile dignity. It had been a beautiful service.
But the loveliness of the music, the minister’s message of hope, and the plethora of flowers banking the small casket didn’t buffer the fact that her baby was sealed inside it, that she would never again experience his smiles and tears, his scent, the sound of his unintelligible chatter, the bubbling joy of his laughter, the weight and warmth of his body against hers.
Glenda had made all the arrangements for the catered reception following the interment. Elle’s house had been abounding in sympathy, almost to a level that had made her claustrophobic. She’d gotten through it.
She’d even withstood the stilted conversation with her ex, Jeff, and his new wife, Lesley, whose short, tight black dress wrapped her distended abdomen like a bandage, making it all the more prominent.
Elle hadn’t wanted to invite them to the funeral, but when Glenda had told her that Jeff had called to ask if they would be welcome, Elle had said, “Of course.” She didn’t care enough about his marriage and pending fatherhood to have made an issue over their attendance. If she had, she’d have looked peevish.
He’d seemed ill at ease when he and Lesley had made their way over to her and extended condolences. He’d sipped nervously at a glass of scotch as Lesley had looked at Elle with soulful eyes and said, “The heartbreak you must be suffering.” As she ran a caressing hand over her pregnant belly, she’d made a tsking sound. “I just can’t imagine losing this little one.”
Before Elle could respond, Jeff had offered to bring her a glass of wine, and when she’d declined, he’d given her an awkward hug. She’d thanked them for coming. As Lesley teetered away on her stilettos, clinging possessively to Jeff’s arm, Glenda had rolled her eyes at Elle and poked her finger down her throat.
As people had begun to leave, she’d left Glenda to see them off while she withdrew to bid goodbye to her agent, Laura, who’d said, “Be kind to yourself. Don’t rush the grieving process. Don’t worry about the book.”
“I confess that it’s been the last thing on my mind.”
“The publishing house understands and supports you one hundred percent. I’ll be calling frequently to check on you.”
Her parents had left the next morning. Despite their offer to remain for a few more days, she’d urged them to get back to their two cats, whom they’d left alone. She’d been secretly relieved to wave them off. They weren’t intentionally demanding, but keeping them content had required energy she didn’t have.
Also, deep down, she knew they had never fully endorsed her decision to have Charlie.
When she’d told them of her intentions, her mother had furrowed her brow. “Are you sure you want to do this, Elle? Under the circumstances?”
The question had been posed in an undertone, as though the circumstances were so unsavory she didn’t dare speak of them out loud for fear of their being overheard.
Now she said aloud, “I wouldn’t have missed him for the world, Mother.” With the same amount of emphasis, she switched off her car and slammed the door shut after she got out.
Inside the precinct, she went through security screening. Compton had told her that she and Detective Perkins could be found on the third floor. The elevator emptied her into a serviceable but unattractive lobby, where a female deputy was seated at a desk.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Elle Portman, here to see Detectives Compton and Perkins.”
“They’re with someone else right now, but I’ll let them know you’re here. Go down this hall,” she said, pointing. “At the dead end, take a right. They’re in room three-oh-six. Have a seat in the hall, and they’ll be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.”
As Elle turned away, the woman said, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms. Portman.”
Elle gave her a weak smile of thanks and started down the long hallway. At the dead end, she turned right and then came to a halt so abruptly she could have walked into an invisible wall.
She recognized him instantly. He was seated in a chair about midway down the hallway. His knees and feet were widespread, his head bent low. He was staring at the floor.
His right hand was cupped around his left elbow, lending support to the bulky sling in which his arm was cradled. He was wearing a dark, herringbone-patterned blazer over a white shirt and black jeans. The empty left sleeve of his blazer hung off his shoulder.
Elle’s heart began to beat erratically, her palms turned damp, noisy buzzing filled her ears. She couldn’t account for these absurd physical reactions to seeing him, except that it was so unexpected.
The intersection of their destinies had been random and fleeting, and she hadn’t anticipated it ever happening again. At least not before she’d had an opportunity to consider and rehearse what she would say to him should the occasion ever arise.
He hadn’t noticed her. She thought about retreating to prepare a brief speech, but she didn’t want to be late for the appointment. She also didn’t think that any amount of preparation would make this easier. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to continue down the hall.
As she neared him, he glanced up and acknowledged her presence with a curt hitch of his chin, then directed his gaze back to the floor space between his shoes. Boots, actually. Black ostrich cowboy boots.
Being as unobtrusive as possible, she sat down in one of the chairs along the opposite wall, facing him. She couldn’t help but wonder about the nature of the thoughts that had him so absorbed.
She had a direct view of the crown of his head. At its center was a whorl like the eye of a hurricane from which his wheat-colored hair fanned out. He had thick eyelashes and well-shaped brows that were drawn steeply together to form a vertical dent above his nose. His jawline was firm and well defined. It contracted and released as though he was grinding his teeth.
He must have sensed her scrutiny. Nothing in his position changed except for his head, which he raised suddenly, looking directly at her.
Caught staring, she had to say something, and it came out gruffly. “Mr. Hudson?”
Chapter 8
When he’d heard someone approaching him, he’d reacted with a glance. His brain had registered only that the individual was female; then he’d dived back into that bottomless, lightless pool of rumination in which he’d been submerged for a week.
He hadn’t become fully aware that she’d sat down across from him until he’d felt the intensity of her stare, weightless but palpable, like a breath against his face.
He’d raised his head, and their gazes had collided, and immediately he’d been arrested by the unusual color of her eyes.
Then she’d said his name.
And with the precision of a lightning bolt that had nearly knocked him off his chair, he’d been struck with the realization of who she must be. Jesus. When he’d gotten up this morning, he sure as hell hadn’t expected this. He wasn’t ready for this! But it was happening, and there was no getting out of it.
As resigned as a man facing a firing squad, he drew himself up straight. “Calder Hudson.”
“Elle Portman.”
“I assumed.”
She was observing him with such rapt curiosity, he flicked his gaze away. He looked down the long hallway in one direction, then in the other. No rescue in sight.
When he came back to her, he hesitated, then said, “That wasn’t quite the truth. What I just said. I didn’t assume who you were. I knew. Something…” He exhaled a gust of breath, made a dismissive motion with his hand, then plowed his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how I knew. I just did.”
She shifted in her seat and looked toward the door of room 306 as though willing the detectives to materialize. And where the hell were they, anyway? He’d dreaded having another meeting with them, but this was worse. This was sheer torture. She was looking at him again.
“You didn’t know me by sight,” she said. “Because you didn’t really see me.” Apparently she realized his confusion because she added, “You didn’t recognize me from the fair.”
“Oh. No, not from the fair. I remember bumping into you, but, no, I didn’t really see you.”
He felt like a shit for having to admit it, but he realized that he couldn’t lie to her while looking her in the eye, although, before seven days ago, lying artfully had been the ability he’d been proudest of.
“No reason you should have noticed us, of course,” she said. “If it hadn’t been for the stroller, you wouldn’t have.”
There was nothing to say to that. It was another statement of fact that put him in a bad light.
“It was blocking your path, and you were already irritated.”
“Was I that obvious?”
Her lips formed a hint of a smile. “You were to me. I noticed you because you weren’t dressed for the fair. I sensed that you were annoyed and not at all happy to be in that crowd.”
“You’re right, but how did you get all that in only a couple of seconds?”
“I’m observant and have excellent recall.”
“Enviable traits.”
“Or a double curse.”
He didn’t touch that. One misstep here could take him down a rabbit hole, so he didn’t ask why she considered those traits to be curses, because he could guess the reason, and, thank God, she didn’t elaborate. He didn’t think he could sit through an elaboration.
They lapsed into a strained silence, strangers with an elephant the size of Everest between them. Also connecting them.
Making even brief eye contact had become uncomfortable. He hunched over again and resumed his examination of the terrazzo floor. Beads of sweat slalomed down his ribs. His skin felt stretched too tight, and it itched from the inside.
In his peripheral vision, he noticed her casting another anxious glance toward the office door, which remained firmly shut. She looked at her wristwatch and murmured, “They said three o’clock.”
“Compton and Perkins?” When she nodded, he said, “They told me to be here at two forty-five.”
“It’s ten after three. You haven’t seen them yet?”
He shook his head.
“Do you know why they asked to see us?”
“No. You?”
“No.” She looked down into her lap. She pulled her lower lip through her teeth a few times, then, raising her head suddenly, said, “I thought you were dead.”
Always one with a glib comeback, he blanked. He couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“There were people who were suddenly there. Helping. When… when they lifted you off the stroller, they stretched you out on the ground.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“You were very still.”
“When I fell, I was knocked unconscious.”
“There was a lot of blood on you.”
“A blood vessel in my arm got clipped. They repaired it in surgery.”
“I see.” Her throat was pale and slender. It worked with the effort to swallow. “I couldn’t tell if it was your blood or Charlie’s.”
He needed to get the fuck out of here. He really needed to get the fuck out of here. Before the sweat he was leaking from every pore began to soak through his clothes. Before he ran completely out of oxygen. Before his eyes produced tears.
Again, he swiveled his head, looking for an exit sign.
“How long were you in the hospital?”
He turned his attention back to her. “Five days.”
“How is your arm now?”
He looked down at it as though needing to consult it before replying. “It’ll be okay. In time. After some PT.”
“No residual damage?”
He shook his head and croaked out, “No. They don’t think so.” Unlike you.
