No Turning Back Read online

  “I’ll be there at eight,” he told her flatly and turned to leave.

  “Fine.” It irked her that he never seemed to answer any of her questions. Passive-aggressive type, she decided with an inner snort.

  She didn’t like him at all.

  * * *

  “What the hell was that all about?” Brad wondered as he opened the back door and let Tawny and Jesse inside. His mother and siblings were at a movie, so the teens had the place to themselves.

  “He’s mad ’cause we told the shrink lady first.” Jesse flopped down on the couch in front of the TV.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Tawny slide into the chair next to the foot of the sofa. She was in his line of sight but yards away. It might as well have been miles.

  It was a minor miracle she was here at all. He couldn’t read her. She seemed content to hang out with him and Brad, but God, it was like she had a force field around her. There was just no getting in.

  In a kind of masochistic agony, Jesse watched her slide her feet out of her sandals and tuck her legs in the chair, pink toenails peeking from the frayed hem of her jeans.

  “He’s mad ’cause you don’t come home,” Brad said.

  “I go home,” Jesse protested.

  “Oh, sure. Like you don’t sneak out. Like we don’t go scare the Ryerson twins.”

  Tawny tilted her head and looked Jesse’s way. Her brown-blond mane swung gently against her shoulders. “You’re the ones throwing stuff at their house?”

  “No!” Jesse wanted to throttle Brad. “We just scared ’em once.”

  “I threw an apple, okay? A Gravenstein. It was just little. They don’t get ripe ’til August.” Brad was unrepentant.

  “It broke their window,” Tawny said.

  “Brad, you asshole,” Jesse muttered. He hated looking bad in Tawny’s eyes, though she wasn’t shaking her finger at them and clucking her tongue like the Ryerson twins would. “Why don’t you go call that Texas girl?”

  “I don’t like her anymore.” A moment of silence followed and Brad lifted his palms, “Okay, I’m sorry about the window, all right? So shoot me.”

  Tawny hunched her shoulders at that, and Jesse had to force himself not to jump up and strangle his best friend.

  Desperate to move on, Jesse said, “I want to know what the deal is with that dead guy.”

  “Barney Turgate,” Tawny supplied.

  “Yeah. Why’d he get shot? Who would do that in Woodside?”

  “Lots of guys have guns,” Brad said with little interest. He picked up the remote and started switching channels on TV.

  “Yeah, but they don’t just go blow somebody away. That guy didn’t have a chance. Whoever did it wanted to be sure he was dead.”

  “You sound like a detective,” Brad said, then went off on his Joe Friday imitation from Dragnet. Normally, Jesse found this the height of humor, but he snatched up a pillow and hurled it at Brad, causing him to drop the remote.

  “Hey!” Brad complained.

  “Stop being such a jerk.”

  “Who’s the jerk?” Brad demanded.

  “I think they hated him,” Tawny said. “They just kept shooting him. They couldn’t stop.”

  Jesse and Brad both stared at her. Girls were weird, Jesse determined, but that didn’t mean they were all bad. “Nah, it’s gotta be something else,” he said. “They wanted something from him. Or he’d ratted ’em out about some big deal.”

  “Or he stole from the mob and they came and took him out,” Brad suggested, holding an imaginary Uzi and wiping out everyone in the room.

  “He let them shoot him,” Tawny said. “He looked right at them, so he knew them. Otherwise he would have run.”

  “Oh, sure. They come up on him and blast the hell out of him. He had a lot of time to turn and run.” Brad rolled his eyes.

  Jesse said evenly, “We don’t know what happened. But I’m going to find out. I’m going to go home and talk to my dad.”

  “He won’t tell you anything,” Brad complained.

  “Yeah, well, he might.”

  “You’re leaving now?” Tawny asked, unfolding her legs. She looked about ready to bolt.

  Jesse hesitated. “Well, not quite yet.”

  She relaxed back in the chair, and Jesse obsessed on what this meant for the rest of the evening. It seemed like she wanted to be with him. She was ready to leave if he wasn’t staying. A quickening of his heart. Shift of attention. Sexual thoughts. His body reacted against his will.

  Shit. He was fighting back a serious woody here. Grabbing another pillow, he hurled it at Brad, who took up the fight and unknowingly helped ease Jesse through the moment.

  * * *

  The Coffee Spot was empty. Mostly a drive-through, it managed to squeeze four tables in an anteroom decorated with smiling coffee cups painted on the walls. Corny, but okay. Liz sat in a chair in the corner and sipped another latte.

  She still hadn’t recovered from seeing Hawthorne. All those years and then wham! She felt like she’d been run over by a freight train.

  Nothing could warm her. No latte. No thoughts of her son. Nothing. She didn’t know which was the harder kick: realizing Jesse was her son or coming face-to-face with Hawthorne again.

  She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Hawk again. She wished he would just—evaporate. She wanted to know Jesse and she didn’t want Hawthorne involved. She supposed that was the way it was in divorce when there were children involved.

  She thought back on those afternoons at the Candlewick Inn. Soft, slanting sunlight. Physical pleasure. A sense of the world stopping for some monumental occurrence that only she and Hawk could share.

  But the Candlewick was now the Elbow Room. Fitting, she thought bitterly. The romantic love nest was now the peanut-munching, beer-swilling domain of the Barney Turgates of the world. Not that Hawk hadn’t done his share of drinking inside those walls.

  Lord, she’d been dumb.

  But it had given her Jesse. And miracle of miracles, she and Jesse already had a relationship, a rapport, a history together. Hawthorne would try to destroy it; she knew that already.

  She had to think of a way to stop him.

  The door swung inward with a little ding: a small brass bell hung above the jamb that tinkled whenever the door opened or closed. Liz’s spine straightened as Hawk strode inside. If he took note of his surroundings she couldn’t tell. He seemed to stare her down from the moment he crossed the threshold.

  He purchased a plain coffee. Black. Somehow, she wasn’t surprised, and as he came her way she braced herself for the confrontation destined to happen. The wheels had been set in motion some sixteen years earlier.

  “Ms. Havers,” he said carefully as he pulled out a chair across from hers.

  This struck her as funny, though what in fact he should say after all these years and the strange circumstances of their first encounters was, after all, going to sound off no matter what.

  “Mr. Hart,” she responded just as carefully, but he must have seen the twinkle in her eyes because the flat line of his mouth relaxed just a little.

  “I don’t want Jesse to know who you are—just yet,” he said.

  “I thought his name was Hawthorne Hart, Jr.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s probably what the birth certificate says.”

  “Don’t you know?” Liz asked.

  He gave her a long look. It was almost more than she could bear, those eyes turned on her so closely. “I didn’t pay a lot of attention at the time. I just wanted my son. I believe his legal name is Hawthorne Jesse Hart. No junior. I don’t have a middle name.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s a typical sixteen-year-old, as you probably noticed. I didn’t realize you’d met.”

  “I didn’t realize we’d met either,” she admitted, “I only knew him as Brad’s friend, ‘Jesse.’”

  Hawthorne nodded. Some of his antagonism lessened, but his fingers moved restlessly on his coffee cup though he didn’
t take one swallow.

  There seemed so little to say when, in fact, there was way too much. Liz was unusually tongue-tied herself. She couldn’t seem to find one conversation starter.

  After several uncomfortable moments, Hawk said, “Jesse came home tonight with a lot of questions about Barney Turgate.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing much. There’s nothing to tell yet, and I couldn’t trust information with Jesse anyway. He said they found Turgate’s body and came to you with the information.”

  Liz could see that bothered him a bit. “Brad comes to see me on a regular basis. He’s a good kid. A little troubled, but who isn’t these days? He trusts me, I think, and he and Jesse were really bothered when they stumbled on the body.”

  “They could have come to me,” Hawthorne pointed out. He grimaced, looked away, then admitted, “Actually, Jesse stopped by the station, but we didn’t—communicate.”

  “Mmm.” Liz was noncommittal. Her ploy didn’t work, however; he gave her another sharp glance, his lips twisting in self-deprecation.

  “I’m his father, not his friend,” Hawthorne said.

  “And you’re a detective with the police department.”

  “We have a few difficulties, but it’s generally okay.”

  Liz nodded.

  “Don’t think I don’t realize what’s going on,” he said softly. “You’ve got an inside track and you’re going to exploit it for all it’s worth.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Liz forced herself not to slide her gaze away from the accusations in his. He was right. She was on the inside track with Jesse. Fate had stepped in and shown her the route. And she was going to exploit it for all it was worth.

  “I want to know my son.”

  “You sure took your time coming to that conclusion.”

  “You think this idea just struck me? Like I woke up one day and thought, ‘Oh, gosh. That’s right. I have a son. Maybe I’ll go see what he’s like now that he’s a teenager.’”

  He shrugged that away, as if her reasons were nothing. “If you tell him the truth, you’ll lose him.”

  “So, I’m not the only psychologist in the room.”

  “I’m asking you what your plans are.”

  His directness wasn’t something she remembered. He’d been so foggy and fuzzy, undoubtedly the result of drink. But he wasn’t that way now, and though she still sensed the basic sadness and unhappiness inside him that she now associated with his character, she realized he possessed the straightforward, no-nonsense bluntness of a police interrogator. Which, she realized, he was.

  “I won’t tell him who I am. I’m not going to slit my own throat.”

  “I want you to stay away from him for now.”

  “No can do, Mr. Hart. He’s my son,” she reminded him.

  “He’s my son. He’s someone you gave birth to.”

  “There is no distinction.”

  “The hell there isn’t.”

  That she understood how he felt only made things worse. Their forced civility strained. It crawled under her skin. She was bugged. Irritated. At him, mostly, but at herself as well for even caring what he thought of her.

  And she did care. She could feel it. That small stirring in her blood. She’d experienced it before—with him—and therefore recognized it for the danger it was. It made her positively ill to think she was still attracted to him. Half of her wanted to spit in his eye, the other half . . . well . . .

  She couldn’t think about it.

  “I’m not going to disappear,” she told him from her heart. “I’m not going to go away. I’m his mother and I don’t give a damn that you think I’m a poor excuse for one. I don’t care. I’ve got a chance to know him and I will know him. You can’t stop me. I—won’t—let you,” she added quietly.

  “As soon as he learns who you are, it’s over.”

  “Fine. I’ll deal with it.” She could well imagine all the terrible denouncements of her Hawthorne had uttered over the years.

  “He’s not an easy kid,” Hawthorne said, more reflectively. “He’s been in trouble with the law. I’m not talking about with me. I mean, he’s been arrested.”

  This didn’t surprise Liz; he was, after all, Brad’s best buddy. But it was a knife to her heart, and it took her several moments to recover and come up with a response. “What’s he done?”

  “The worst was grand theft auto. He and a friend went joyriding in a car when he was fifteen. That’s why he hasn’t got a license yet.”

  “I like him,” Liz said simply.

  “You don’t even know him,” Hawk admonished harshly.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m a good judge of character.” This time she didn’t add, And he’s my son.

  Hawthorne just shook his head.

  “What have you told him about me?” Liz dared to ask.

  He drew a deep breath. She could see him thinking that one over, which didn’t bode well. Unconsciously, she braced herself for what was to come.

  “He knows you were young and your family wanted you to give him up.”

  Did you tell him they wanted to abort him? Did you tell him I wanted to abort him?

  Liz said carefully, “Despite what you think, I always wanted to keep him. I couldn’t, of course. I was so immature. My family did have a lot of influence over me.”

  “The Havers family,” he said softly.

  “They’re both gone now. Died within six months of each other.” She didn’t add that she’d never quite reconciled with her parents after Jesse’s birth. The subject was taboo. That episode of her life wiped out. But it was something Liz thought about every day; sometimes nearly every moment, sometimes with a jolt when a sound or smell or feeling reminded her.

  He had the courage not to say I’m sorry. That, she knew, would have been a lie. But he looked thoughtful, almost grim, as if the changes affected him more than he’d like to admit.

  “Does he ever ask about me?” Liz asked.

  “No.”

  She bowed her head. What had she expected?

  Long moments passed, an eternity in a handful of seconds. Hawk stirred and rose to his feet. Liz stared at him askance. Apparently, their meeting was about to end and she still had so many things to say.

  But she kept her mouth closed. Her head clamored with unvoiced queries.

  He walked several paces, hesitated, half-turned. She waited, her eyes begging for more. Pain etched long brackets on either side of his mouth. She longed to reach out and erase those marks. She longed to be near. To hold. To touch.

  “He’s a lot like you at the same age . . .” Hawk managed to force out, and then he left quickly, as if the admission might start an avalanche that would bury him if he stayed in one place too long.

  Liz gazed after him after the door dinged shut behind him. By the time she got to her own feet she’d battened down the hatches on her own bursting emotions.

  Tomorrow, as they said, was another day.

  * * *

  Kristy Fielding lay propped against some pillows on the couch, smiling faintly at all the fussing Liz and Tawny were wont to do. “Stop that,” she told them without heat. “Stop that right now.”

  “Do you want your feet up?” Tawny asked, concerned

  “How about some juice? Are you thirsty?” Liz chimed in.

  Kristy waved them both away, then tiredly rested her cheek on one of the chocolate velveteen throw pillows. It was two weeks since the surgery and Guy, her ex-husband, had called her every day. Liz wasn’t sure if that pleased her or not. The good news was the surgery looked to be successful and her doctors were adopting a wait-and-see policy—the usual medical bullshit, as far as Liz was concerned. Meanwhile, she was taking Taxol, a drug specifically targeted against ovarian cancer. Whether it staved off another cancerous attack or actually worked on the cancer itself, Liz wasn’t sure. It hardly mattered. Either way, it was the best answer there was.

&nb
sp; “Just speak up if you need anything,” Liz told her.

  “Don’t worry. I will.”

  “Mom?” Tawny asked. “Is it okay if I go out with a friend for a while?”

  Kristy’s eyes closed and she sighed. “Ask your aunt Liz,” she suggested.

  Aunt Liz threw Tawny a sideways look. “Would this friend be Jesse Hart?”

  “And probably Brad,” Tawny agreed. “We just wanted to go get some ice cream.”

  “Uh-huh. What mode of transportation?”

  “Walking,” Tawny admitted. “Unless you’d care to drop us off downtown . . . ?”

  Tawny, wily young thing that she was, had quickly figured out that Liz actually enjoyed being with Brad and Jesse. Liz was afraid to ask her what she thought, but because Tawny seemed to accept, and sometimes use, the information, the subject hadn’t needed to be addressed.

  “Get in the car,” Liz said with a grin. Her pulse quickened at the thought of seeing Jesse again. They’d had a few encounters since the day she’d learned the truth, but Liz ached for more. As the summer waxed on, she struggled for ways to be near him and had luckily stumbled upon the fact that Jesse was very interested in Barney Turgate’s death and harbored a secret desire to solve it before the police. Liz fed that interest with questions and insights of her own, so a natural rapport had sprung up between them. Brad was bored with the whole thing, but Tawny seemed also to be infected by the “detective” bug.

  As far as Hawthorne went, the less she saw of him the better, Liz figured. She was fairly certain he didn’t know of her ways of seeing Jesse. And she was just as certain Jesse didn’t tell him. Hawthorne’s son could be as closed off as his father when he felt like it, and where Hawk was concerned, Jesse felt like it darn near all the time.

  Which only worked to Liz’s advantage.

  “My dad wants me to come live with him in Seattle,” Tawny said as they headed down the winding driveway.

  “What?” This was the first Liz had heard of it.

  “Mom’s sick and he thinks it would be better if I was with him.”

  “Oh, come on!” Liz sputtered emphatically. “Better for whom? Certainly not your mother.”