Back Where She Belongs

chapter ELEVEN



“TARA, WAIT!”

Dylan’s voice stopped Tara just as she realized she’d blindly marched two blocks in the wrong direction for her car. She turned and headed back, meeting Dylan outside Ruby’s entrance.

“What?” she demanded, crossing her arms, her emotions snarled up, her mind racing. She was angry, frustrated and out of control. She’d been wrong in some of what she’d said. She’d overdone it again like she’d done in Bill Fallon’s office. She wasn’t sure she wanted Dylan to point that out right now.

“I’m on your side, Tara,” he said, low, holding her gaze, his eyes hot with conviction. “Disagreeing with you doesn’t make me corrupt or a sellout or whatever you think I am.”

She fought to control her breathing, tried to calm down, to hear the sense in his words. “I know that, Dylan. You’re a good person.” She’d fallen back on the knee-jerk negativity and defensiveness that used to rule her.

“I’m not against you and neither is the town.”

“It feels that way,” she said. “Everywhere I turn I get stalled.”

“You’re frustrated and impatient. I get that, but you can’t accuse every person who fidgets, won’t answer a question or gets defensive of trying to kill your father, sister or both.”

“And you can’t blindly defend them all.”

“You’re right. But I won’t assume the worst about them, either. People keep secrets. Sure. They lie. They cover up their mistakes. But not every person and not all the time. I know these people. I know how they think, what they’re after, what they’re capable of. Give me some credit, Tara.”

What he said made sense. Her mind had been buzzing with doubts and suspicions and worries, like a fly blocked by a window. “It crowds in on me sometimes and I respond the way I used to.”

“You’re under a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah.” Something else dawned on her. “I’m also afraid I’ll find out terrible things about my parents, Dylan. Things I don’t want to know. I have to push on before I lose my nerve. I have to know the truth, even if it hurts.”

“We’ll find out the truth, Tara. I promise.”

“Okay.” She inhaled a breath, holding it in, letting it out slowly, releasing her anger at the same time. Dylan stood quietly, waiting for her to sort her thoughts. He was so good at that. When she felt normal, she said, “Don’t you get sick of being right?”

“Never. You?”

“No way.” She liked this easy teasing between them. It was better than it had been when they were younger. They were both old enough to be able to laugh at themselves and each other.

Dylan smiled abruptly. He was looking over her shoulder.

“What’s so funny?” She turned to see what had amused him in the middle of their argument. It was a bench and a desert willow in a sidewalk planter. She still didn’t get the joke.

“Don’t you remember that time with Duster?”

Then it hit her. “This is the planter I fell into. The tree’s so much bigger.”

“I warned you he wouldn’t hold his stay when the ice-cream truck came.”

“It was worth a try,” she said. In his rush to get to the truck, Duster had knocked her into the peat moss around the freshly planted sapling.

Every inch of this town held memories for her and Dylan—silly, romantic, sweet and sad. She had to resist them. The stakes were too high. If she let memories, or Dylan’s praise of the town, sink in, seduce her, she might be tempted to stay, to forget how hard she’d fought to make her way into the bigger world.

“Now what?” she said, totally uncertain of the next step. That never happened to her in her real life.

“We go back for the flan,” Dylan said, nodding toward the café window.

“Are you nuts? Half the town saw me stomp out. If I go back in they’ll think you won the fight.”

“If we go back, we both win.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please. This is not a Lifetime movie.”

“Couldn’t resist.” He grinned.

“How do you stand this? Everybody watching your every move?”

“I don’t give them that much power over me.”

“Okay, Dr. Phil. Guess I’m not as mature as you.” She sighed. “I do have to tell the waitress to tell Ruthie her empanadas are the best ever. She should take that food truck job in Tucson.”

“After you.” He motioned for her to walk ahead of him.

“I wouldn’t mind taking the Walk of Shame if we’d actually done something to make it worthwhile.”

“That could be arranged,” he said, spots of gold flaring in his dark eyes like two struck matches, tilting his chin, as if to kiss her.

Her stomach dropped. Desire tightened some muscles, softened others. She was usually the one who threw out the dare. But here was Dylan waiting for her to take him up on it.

For a few seconds, she considered kissing him, sliding into that rush of pleasure and seeing where it would take them.

Then she thought of the gawking crowd—Wharton at its worst—and the urge evaporated like steam.

Tara walked in front of him, head high, wondering if he’d been serious. Did he really want the entire town to think they were together? Did he want to be together? Or had he known she would turn him down?

Later, after the caramel glory of Ruthie’s flan had melted in their mouths, when they told each other good-night, she felt like she’d ducked trouble and missed out on a dream at the same time.

* * *

TARA ROSE EARLY Thursday morning, braced for trouble, she wasn’t sure what kind. Dylan? No. She’d walked away from him. Faye? No change there. Then she remembered. The will. Today they went to Tucson to see Norton Marshall, their estate attorney, to go over her father’s will.

She set off for her run, welcoming the chill in the air because it cleared her head. She thought about Dylan. He’d come after her, ignored the onlookers and promised to help her despite her bristles and accusations. He was a strong person, solid in his beliefs. He had what it took to survive in Wharton—to thrive really. She admired him for that, respected him.

And she wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him.

Tara pushed the thoughts away—again—as she headed up the hill to the house, breathing hard, energized by the exercise. She showered and made a few client contacts, then Judith met her in the hallway with a tray of breakfast. “Your mother’s in the sunroom working on that charity event. Now’s your chance to help her. Make her eat while you’re at it.”

Tara took the tray and found her mother at the antique desk, talking on the phone, her back toward Tara. On a card table beside her mother were neatly placed file folders, stapled pages and a table layout with names sketched in.

“That would be lovely, Margaret,” her mother said. “I’ll put you down for a table then?” She listened. “Oh, well, that’s kind of you. We’re doing very well, thank you.” Hanging up, her mother pressed the phone to her chest, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. After a few seconds, she took a shuddering breath, consulted her paper, cleared her throat and made another call. Tara stood there, stunned by her mother’s struggle and her determination.

“Yes. Natalie? It’s Rachel Wharton calling,” she said, her voice cool and smooth. “It’s regarding the Harvest Dinner Dance to raise money for the food kitchen?” Tara could see over her mother’s shoulder that the call list was long, with few names checked off.

When her mother hung up, Tara said, “Mom?”

Her mother’s head whipped around. Her nose was red, her eyes puffy. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Her eyes danced, frantic and miserable.

“Here’s breakfast.” Tara made room for the tray on the table. “Take a break.”

“I’m nearly two weeks behind on the dinner,” she said, turning back to her list.

“How about if I make those calls? I’ve got time.”

“You couldn’t possibly.” She sniffed. “You don’t know these people or their families or the donations they’ve made in the past.”

“So write me notes.” Tara pulled the list closer.

“No.” Her mother took it back. “These are my friends. They can’t turn me down. You’re a virtual stranger.” She glanced at the list. “Beverly Crowley’s the next call. She’d likely hang up on you.”

“Because of the protest? Really?”

“She’d like to hang up on me, but she doesn’t dare. I’m too well-connected. So instead she refuses to look me in the eye.”

“That was twelve years ago, Mom.”

“You threatened the Crowleys’ livelihood. People don’t forget that.”

“Their livelihood? The whole town shops at their store. They were rolling in it. All we did was get him to treat his employees fairly—”

“Enough.” Her mother raised her hands. “You can’t even admit you were wrong now, after ten years. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Tara bristled, then calmed herself. Her mother was displacing her grief and anxiety on Tara, something she’d done to Dylan just last night. Maybe she had more in common with her mother than Tara had realized.

“What can I do instead?” Tara said.

“Nothing. Go about your business.”

Tara picked up the folder labeled Silent Auction and flipped it open to a list of businesses. “I can call these companies for donations. How’s that?”

Her mother firmly took back the folder.

“You need help and I’m offering it,” she said, trying to be kind, but anger lined her words. “I’m your daughter. We should be able to help each other. Or at least talk to each other. Instead you keep shutting me out.”

“I don’t have time for one of your scenes, Tara,” her mother snapped, abruptly angry. “You’re here for a few days. This is my life. This is my home. I have to make my way through this on my own. Don’t pretend to help me.”

Her mother’s words stung. Still. Tara clenched her fists and her jaw. Her mother didn’t want to make peace. Tara’s fantasy of a tearful reconciliation, a loving mother-daughter bond, was just that, a fantasy. Her mother was the same person she’d always been, except with years of built-up resentment of her AWOL daughter. What did Tara expect?

Heavy with disappointment, she breathed in the delicious aroma of the food Judith had prepared. Judith wasn’t put off by Tara’s mother’s bristles. She went about her business, taking care of Tara’s mother as best she could.

The tray held a delicate-looking omelet and fresh strawberries, along with a latte and orange juice. She had to take her mother as she was. That had to be enough. “You really should eat, Mom,” she said quietly, all hostility gone. “Do it for Judith. She’s worried about you.”

Her mother glanced at the food, then at Tara, then out the window. She seemed to be thinking hard. Finally she turned to Tara. “All right. You can do the auction calls. I am running out of time.” She slowly pushed the file toward Tara, then stopped. “But only if you can be diplomatic.”

“I can do that. I’m good at it. I have clients, remember?”

“That’s right. Your sister said you’re quite good. Okay.” She pushed the file the rest of the way to Tara and gave it a pat. That was it. The closest thing to a peace offering Tara would get from her mother. Permission to harass local businesses for donations. At the moment, that was enough for Tara.

* * *

TARA SAT BESIDE Faye’s bed, her heart full and aching. She’d come straight from the reading of the will to the hospital. Joseph was driving her mother home. It troubled Tara how little time her mother spent with Faye. Was it her guilt over the argument she’d had that night with Faye? Did she think Faye had been so upset she’d driven poorly? Or was it the horror at the possibility of Faye dying? She would expect her mother to show at least as much courage as she’d displayed making phone calls about a stupid society event.

It’s how she copes. She sees it as her job.

Tara was getting better at accepting people for who they were, good and bad, she thought. That was a tiny point of pride amid her mistakes. Besides, in the lawyer’s office just now, she’d learned something about her father that had touched her deeply, opened her up to new realizations.

Tara took her sister’s hand, the orange nail polish gleaming. “We went over Dad’s will today. I wish you’d been there.”

Tara had been surprised to learn how little money her family had. “Dad sold all his stocks to invest in the company. Did you know that? He was worried, wasn’t he? You all were.”

She pressed Faye’s hand to her own cheek. “Mom will be okay. She owns the house, free and clear. There’s the life insurance, of course. The car accident settlement is likely to be huge, too.” Her mother had sat like a soldier, barely speaking, the entire meeting. Only her hands twisting in her lap showed her distress.

“You and Mom own the company,” Tara said to Faye. The ownership was to be divided evenly between and among Rachel Ann Kingsley Wharton and any Wharton child who has made a valuable contribution to the success of Wharton Electronics. The lawyer had apologized to Tara, saying he had invited her father to update his will numerous times, but that her father had declined.

“No money for me, Faye, but that’s how I wanted it.” She put Faye’s hand back down. “Did he know you wanted to hire me? Would he have wanted that? He kept my card. At least I have that.”

And there was something else. Something that made her grin. “He gave you the ship bottles, of course, but you won’t believe what he gave me. His library. All those books. He noticed that I was a big reader, too. I can’t believe that. And...the antique shotgun. The one he wouldn’t use for fear it might break? He must have known I’d learned to shoot. The guy who owned the range must have told him.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Can you believe that? You probably can. You were always generous with him. But I can’t. And I just wish he’d said one word to me. About my business. About my interests. Hell, about my marksmanship.” One kind word would have meant so much to her.

That’s not his way. She didn’t need Faye to tell her that.

Her parents were her parents. She could write them off or she could accept them as they were. She’d decided to accept them, warts and all.

And her father had gifted her with two of his most valuable possessions. There was always that card in his wallet, too. That had to be enough.

Her cell phone rang. She saw it was Dylan.

“The Tesla’s at Roadrunner Wrecking on the outskirts of Tucson,” he said without even saying hello.

Her mind switched gears instantly. “How’d you find out?”

“I had my secretary pull up the bill from the yard where Wharton P.D. tows vehicles and called on the off chance they would know where the car had gone from there. Turns out it’s still on the lot. Your insurance company has a contract with them.”

“Great detective work, Dylan. Thank you.” At last they could get somewhere.

“So, I’m on my way there right now with Tony Carmichael and—”

“I’ll meet you there. I’m at the hospital with Faye, so I’m close,” she said, her nerves jumping at the prospect.

“The car will be smashed up. It might be...gory.”

“I need to be there.”

“I can’t talk you out of it?”

“Not a chance.”

He sighed. “You know I had to try.”

“I know you did.”

“I’m bringing a camera to take stills and video of the car and Tony’s comments.”

“Good idea. We can study it later or show it to Fallon or any experts we deal with.” And if the scene was too much for Tara, she’d be able to look at the stills and footage when she felt braver. “We make a good team, Dylan.”

“Yeah...”

“When I’m not stomping out of restaurants and calling you a sellout.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

She smiled. It reassured her that they could get past their arguments more easily. That wouldn’t be the case if they were sleeping together, she knew. They would be too tense with each other, weighing every word for a double meaning, a change in feeling. Something.

With the address in the GPS, Roadrunner Wrecking was a snap to find and in a half hour, she met Dylan and Tony Carmichael at the high chain-link fence that marked the entrance to the salvage yard. Tony was a stocky man in overalls and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, a long blond ponytail pulled back by a do-rag of the American flag. Dylan introduced them and Tara shook his rough palm with her nerve-clammy one. “We appreciate you taking time for this,” she said. “We’ll pay you, of course.”

“No big deal. It’s a beautiful machine. I serviced her a couple weeks ago. I’d like to see how she held up under pressure.”

“Let’s go take a look,” Dylan said. He picked up a wheeled cart, probably to look at the undercarriage, and Tony grabbed a toolbox and a jack. They met the manager in his tiny office and the guy led them to a cement slab with several wrecked cars. “Adjuster did his thing,” he said. “I expected demo orders by now, but that’s the insurance company’s call. They pay us either way. That’s it.” He pointed at a dark blue vehicle. “You need me, I’m in my office.”

Tara gasped at the battered car. She refused to picture how it had gotten that way. She was determined to be brave.

Tony pried up the hood, bracing it open with the crowbar. Tara and Dylan joined him, Dylan holding the camera, running video, she assumed.

The engine was surprisingly clean, though much of it was bent and crumpled. “Looks pretty jammed up,” Tony said. “Not sure how much I can see without a cutting torch and major equipment.”

“Really?” Tara asked, disappointed.

“The radiator’s been shoved into the block,” Tony said, banging on the metal with a wrench, “so I can’t get at the pistons.” He tapped the lid of a crunched-up black box behind the battery. She saw the edge of a label as bright as the nail polish she’d used on Faye. “The controls are electronic. I’d need to check the programming to see if it fouled up or shorted out.”

“We’re looking for anything that might have malfunctioned or been tampered with,” Tara said, finding it hard to speak.

“Brakes, drive train, steering,” Dylan said.

“I’ll do what I can,” Tony said. He turned to look through his toolbox. Tara and Dylan stepped back and surveyed the car. What remained of the windshield was a mosaic of shattered safety glass. The other windows had only pebbled chunks remaining. The dented driver’s door hung from its hinges. “How could anyone have survived?” she said. She felt dizzy and inhaled quickly, but oxygen seemed to elude her.

“You sure you want to be here?” Dylan asked.

She nodded, but she couldn’t face the interior yet. “Let’s check the back bumper for dents.” If she kept moving, she’d do better.

They found part of the bumper missing, the rest crushed. Both taillights were broken. “They must have been hit from behind. Something tore that bumper apart. And look at the dent.”

“The damage could have happened when it tumbled downhill.”

“But a collision would explain the speed when the car hit the barrier.” She knelt to look closer and saw scrapes of pale-blue paint. “Take pictures of this,” she said, excited by the find. “This could be from the car that hit them.”

Dylan dropped to a crouch and snapped shots. “It could be the primer under the Tesla’s topcoat, too.”

“We need to see the missing piece of bumper. It would have more paint scrapes. I hope it didn’t fall off when the car got towed. If it was at the crash site, Fallon should have it in evidence.”

“I’ll see what he’s got,” Dylan said.

“He parks at town hall, right? Could you check his car for dents or scrapes? I know you don’t think he did anything, but he was at the scene....”

“He drives his cruiser for personal use. Police cars get pretty beat-up.” He looked at her face. “I’ll check,” he said finally.

“Thanks.” He’d meant it when he said he’d help, even when he didn’t agree with her. She felt a surge of gratitude.

The trunk latch had been sprung. Dylan helped her try to lift it. With a shriek of metal against metal, it rose. She smelled sweet pickles. Then she saw the trunk was scattered with the contents of a plastic sack from Crowley’s. Cans, tortilla chips, a jar of olives, a broken jar of salsa and two broken bottles. She turned over a piece with a label. Pinch. Her father’s brand of scotch. “This is why the car smelled of liquor,” she said. “No one was drunk. He bought whiskey at the store.”

“It’s a possibility, certainly,” Dylan said. Dylan kept holding back on agreeing with any of her conclusions. She knew he thought she was overstating things and assuming the worst. He was helping her. That was enough.

They checked the photos Dylan had taken, making sure they were in focus and well lit. Their gazes met and held.

“We need to look at the interior,” she said shakily.

“I can do it. You can take a walk.”

“I need to see for myself,” she said.

“Right.” He braced her with a hand to her back and they headed for the driver’s side of the car. She locked her mind into fact-finding mode, not allowing horror or panic to interfere with the examination of the car.

Inside, side and front airbags sagged and a white dust coated every surface. “The powder’s from the airbags,” Dylan explained. There was no blood visible. Whew.

She noticed the placement of the seats. “The driver’s seat is too far back for Faye’s short legs. Dad must have been driving.”

“The EMTs might have moved the seat to get the driver out.”

“But both of them were outside the car, according to Fallon.” She pictured the ragged pool of dark soil where her father’s blood must have mingled with Faye’s, and where she’d found Faye’s missing shoe. Her vision swirled.

“Tara?” Dylan reached for her.

“I’m all right.” She shifted her gaze to the passenger seat. “Less foot room there. See.” Then she caught sight of a few strands of fiber hanging from the broken safety glass still in the window. She looked closer, squinted. Not fiber. Hair. Dark, curly hair. Faye’s hair. Tara gulped and stepped back, bumping into Dylan, turning toward him. “It’s Faye’s hair,” she gasped. “It’s caught in the passenger window. She wasn’t driving. There’s the proof.” Her stomach churned and she tasted bile. She refused to throw up again. “Think I’ll take that walk. Get pictures.” She stumbled off, blindly weaving among the broken vehicles stacked and scattered throughout the salvage yard, taking deep breaths, forcing her stomach to settle down.

Tara had walked a long way before she felt normal again. When she returned, Tony was rolling out from under the car. He handed up Dylan’s camera, then got to his feet.

“Brake lines look okay,” he said, wiping his hands on a red rag. “Oil pan’s dented from striking the railing, I would guess.”

“Can you tell if the brakes were slammed?” Tara asked. “There were no skid marks on the highway near the rail.”

“No way to tell. Discs are smooth, pads fine. The mechanism’s functional. Hang on.” He looked in the driver’s side. “Emergency brake’s on. There should have been skid marks.”

She hadn’t noticed the emergency brake. Thank God Tony was here.

“So the emergency brake didn’t hold?” Dylan asked.

“The parts look fine. Something overrode the brakes. The accelerator might have jammed. Some circuitry went haywire.”

“Or they got hit from behind,” Tara said. “Could that explain it?”

“Don’t know the physics on that. I could check the circuitry in my shop. Do more with the engine, too. Be good to check for any recalls on the car.”

“We’ll get it towed to your place,” she said. “Would that work?”

“It should.” Tony nodded, then left them to gather his tools.

“You were right about Tony. He’s good,” she said to Dylan. “We’re finally getting somewhere. We can talk it over tonight. Want to grab supper?”

“Sorry. I’ve got a meeting, Tara.”

“Oh, sure.”

“I need to convince the town council to annex more land on the outskirts of town. It’ll mean taxes to fund utilities. I’ve got the votes even without the mayor, but the more support the better off we’ll be.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me. I know you’re busy.” She was surprised at how disappointed she was.

Dylan frowned. “I’m busy, yeah. Maybe too busy. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Not much. Getting the car towed. Visiting Faye. Making calls for Mom’s charity banquet. Some client work. Waiting for Joseph to hire me.”

“Sounds like a busy morning. Could you free up the afternoon? I’ve got an idea. I’ll pick you up at one. Wear jeans and athletic shoes.”

“What are we doing?” Her heart lifted with delight.

“Trust me.”

“I almost do.”

Sadness shadowed Dylan’s smile. Trust between them was a fragile thing. Maybe it always would be.