Maybe they could still do Vegas. He could make a U-turn right now, pick Laurel up, and whisk her out of town to a new life. They’d lock all this—this sordidness in a closet and never talk about it again.
But would it be that easy to forget? Every time he looked at Laurel, he saw her father in her—her gray eyes and dark hair, something in the shape of her face, the way she carried herself. She even sounded like him—calm, soothing, concerned. He snorted. Maybe her concern was as false as Reverend Ed’s must have been.
No, he knew better than that—didn’t he? Oh God, what did he know? His whole world had just been blasted to smithereens.
He deliberately ignored a stop sign.
Would he ever be able to make love to her again without thinking of what her father had done?
Fuck, what was he doing at the Shallows? He’d thought he was driving aimlessly, but maybe this was an appropriate destination. For all its beautification, the place was just river bottom. And, for all his money and closetful of Armani suits, he was just Jase Redlander, son of the Meanest Man in Texas.
He parked in the lot, rolled down his window, and stared up into the night. Holy shit, the cicadas were wailing like banshees on crack.
Had Traylor and Simcek recognized his name? He certainly knew theirs. Those canny old buzzards had been wheeling and dealing around Bosque Bend since he’d been in grade school. But then, the way he figured it, if there was a buck to be made, they’d remember him as the angel Gabriel. And apparently, for his sake, they were even willing to make nice to Reverend Ed’s daughter too—all except Mrs. Simcek, that is.
He uttered a brief, sharp laugh. What a switch. Laurel Harlow, the princess of Bosque Bend, being tolerated only because she was with Jase Redlander, despoiler of innocent schoolteachers.
The stars were high now, and the moon was a distant disc of white. His world had been knocked out of orbit, but the heavens kept revolving as usual. He stared out the windshield into the dark night and wondered what would happen if he married Laurel, and they had children. Could he protect them from learning about Reverend Ed? Hell—what if they found out about Growler? He was having a hard enough time trying to protect Lolly from learning about Marguerite.
God didn’t send him any answers, so finally he put in a CD of Charlie Pride oldies and leaned back on the seat to rest, awakening occasionally through the night to fight off images of two fig-leafed Greek statues closing in on him.
The next thing he knew, a cruelly bright sun was glaring through the windshield as it rose over the placid Bosque. He glanced around at his surroundings, trying to orient himself.
Damn, sleeping out here all night—that was a stupid thing to do. There was no way to fence the park off, and he’d bet bad boys still congregated in hidden places when the sun went down. He was lucky he hadn’t been mugged.
Putting the Caddie in gear, he backed out of the parking space and headed home, home to the old house on the west arm of the Bosque for a morning shower and a good cup of coffee. He was sticky with sweat and his mouth tasted fuzzy.
Besides, he didn’t want to face Laurel yet.
She’d understand.
*
There was an insistent ringing in Laurel’s ear. If the phone hadn’t been on the desk next to her, she never would have picked it up in time.
“Hullo?” Was it Jase? Her brain hustled itself into wakefulness.
“Good morning, Ms. Harlow. This is Craig—Craig Freiberg. I, uh, want to apologize for the incident at the club last night. I’m so sorry about Mrs. Simcek. I hope you won’t hold it against me. Her husband said she’d been having nervous problems lately. I had no idea she would fly off the handle like that.”
“That’s okay.” What else could she say? Nothing was Craig Freiberg’s fault. He was trying to help Jase by introducing him to the mayor and his business crony.
“Uh, may I speak with Jase, please?”
“He’s not here.” She tried to sound nonchalant. “Have you tried his cell?”
“It seems to be turned off, but he gave me this number as a backup. I assumed…”
Glancing at the century-old photo of Erasmus in the bookcase across from her, Laurel straightened her shoulders, put on her best schoolteacher voice, and took control of the conversation. “Mr. Redlander’s visit was limited in duration, and I do not know when he will be returning.”
“But I thought…” Craig stopped dead, finally realizing something was wrong. “Uh…okay…thank you. I’ll try him again.”
Laurel replaced the phone on its cradle, switched off an irritatingly cheery morning TV host, made her way up the stairs, and started running her bath.