Passing Through Midnight Page 2

  "Of course, darling. But I know you'll forget to call, so I'll call you later."

  "Good. Thanks for calling. I love you."

  "I love you, too, dear, and I'm so pleased that you're getting out. If you do happen to run into a wealthy farmer, you be sure to…"

  The geographic center of the continental United States is located two miles northwest of Lebanon, Kansas. Two steps in any direction from that point places you smack-dab in the middle of nowhere—exactly the sort of place Dorie had been looking for. A nowhere place where no one knew her, and she didn't have to be anyone.

  One hundred and forty miles southwest, as the crow flies, was the sleepy little farming community of Colby —at least that's how most people would have classified it. The first time she drove up Range Street, Dorie called it a haven, a sanctuary, a safe place to hide.

  Denver had been her original destination, assuming a big fish needed a big pond to conceal it. But when she'd pulled off I -70 to gas up and stretch her bad leg, something about Colby had appealed to her.

  It was early March, and no place looked its best that time of year. So maybe it was the first few inhabitants that she encountered that made her want to stay. The gas station attendant had been friendly and efficient, noting her Illinois plates, asking her destination, cautioning her to drive safely. She'd parked on the wide cobbled street downtown in front of the drugstore and limped her way along the sidewalk to a cafe. A middle-aged woman smiled and said hello. Dorie stopped to see if she'd turn back and stare—she didn't.

  Her entrance at the cafe didn't go unnoticed, but it was amazingly short-lived considering that she was dressed in a trench coat, scarf, and dark glasses, as if she were traveling incognito in a forties film. She heard no whispering, caught no furtive glances in her direction. One man nodded a greeting as she hobbled over to an empty booth, and that was it. It was as if the people of Colby were inherently open and friendly but well mannered enough to mind their own business. She liked that.

  She liked the way they looked too. Clean, healthy, and solid. No designer suits, no gang colors, no spiked heels… or hair. Salt-of-the-earth types who didn't feel the need to carry guns in their pockets; who weren't looking for potential victims to fleece. They were hardworking types who looked comfortable and satisfied with their lives.

  That afternoon she'd sat in a room full of strangers, and her hands didn't shake. For the first time in weeks she'd felt safe and relaxed. She was a big fish getting smaller all the time, hidden away in a little pond.

  Now, she shivered in the wind and pulled her coat tight about her as she recalled that first wintery afternoon. Her emergency run into Warren's IGA for cookie mix that morning had been a quick in-and-out affair that no one seemed to notice—she was practically invisible already. She was still nodding approval of her decision to stay in Colby when she became alert to the sound of a vehicle on the county road in front of the house.

  The big black and silver truck turned into the gravel drive, and her heart began to race. She pushed the dark glasses tight against her face and pulled the scarf close to her cheeks as she stood to greet the Howletts.

  When out-of-doors she usually took the precaution of using a cane to help her walk, but this was sort of a special occasion and she'd opted to go without it—hoping one less oddity in her appearance would be less frightening to the little boy. However, as she stepped to the end of the porch, she discovered that limping and balancing a plate of cookies in one hand could be a little tricky.

  Instead of turning to park between the house and the barn, the truck came directly toward her and stopped short a few feet from the bottom step.

  "Dorothy Devries?" The man cut the engine and was out of the truck before she could adjust to how much taller he was on ground level than from a second-story window. It startled her.

  "Yes. Mr. Howlett, right?"

  "I'm Gil," he said, coming up the steps with a disarming smile.

  "I'm Dorie." She swallowed the panicky feeling she'd recently acquired in the presence of strangers, and tried to smile back. Her lips felt stiff and awkward.

  "I'm mighty glad you decided to come out of the house on your own. We were getting worried about you."

  "Well, I…" She'd been hoping to play the old my-behavior-isn't-too-strange-if-no-one-comments-on-it game, but obviously he didn't know the rules. "I've been ill."

  "You should have hollered out the window. We might have been able to help."

  "No," she said quickly, realizing that the nervousness inside and the tingling in her fingers weren't all panic. He was a stranger to her, yes, but he was also a very attractive and appealing stranger. "I wasn't that kind of ill. I'm recuperating from an accident. I'm fine. I… it's just hard to get around sometimes, and I don't look…"

  He nodded, lowering his eyes for a moment, then he smiled at her with understanding.

  "You don't have to explain anything. We wanted you to know that we're around if you need anything, is all." He shrugged at the simplicity of it. He was watching her closely, as if trying to figure out what she might look like without the dark glasses and scarf.

  "Thank you," she said, feeling relieved and uncomfortable at once. "I appreciate your neighborliness, in fact"—she looked back at the truck and for the first time realized he was alone—"I… I made these for your little boy, for the map, the invitation. I… well, here."

  He took the plate of cookies when she thrust it at him and smiled. "Baxter loves chocolate chip. These are a big mistake," he said, shaking his head.

  "Why?" It was no surprise to her that any attempt to reach out to another human being, even a child, would turn out badly. It was becoming the story of her life.

  "We Howletts are like dogs. Feed us, and you can't get rid of us." His gaze, twinkling with humor, tried to meet hers behind the dark glasses. "We're a house full of men over there. Me, the boys, and my uncle Matthew. We never get stuff like this, except at Christmas, and only if Matthew's in the mood."

  "Oh," she said, feeling a little better. Clearly he was trying to be friendly and charming, and were she any other woman in the world, she might have been tempted to flirt with him a little. If she were any other woman in the world, she would have found his astute and sparkling eyes alluring, his smile beguiling, his confident stance and carriage irresistible… but she wasn't any other woman, and she wasn't in a mood to be charmed. "Well then, I hope you all enjoy them," she said, preparing to go back inside, away from his disturbing gaze.

  "We will," he said, watching her turn slowly toward the front door, dismissing him. "Look, I'm not sure what to do here." He took two hurried steps to address her face-to-face. "It's obvious you don't want to be disturbed, and I can keep Baxter away from you for the most part, but he's… curious about you, I guess. He's a friendly kid and… well, what would you like me to tell him? I'd hate to tell him to just stay away. He's not used to being snubbed and—"

  "Snubbed?" she asked. "Is that what my wanting some privacy seems like to you?"

  "No," he said, picking up the anger in her voice and returning it automatically. "Whatever you're doing here is your own business and, frankly, I couldn't care less. But my kid cares, and I want to prepare him for whatever you're going to do if he happens to run into you."

  "I won't bite him, if that's what you're asking."

  "Good," he said, taking a step back, satisfied. "I'll warn him to stay out of your way, but just in case…"

  "Mr. Howlett," she said wearily, too weak to maintain her anger, too tired to be uncivil. "You don't need to warn your son about anything. I'm not looking to hurt anyone. Especially your little boy. I'm just not feeling very social. I'm sorry if I've been rude or if you've felt snubbed. That wasn't my intention. I simply want to be alone."

  His hostility vanished with hers, and he went back to the probing study of her features. She felt safe behind her dark glasses because she could see that they irritated him.

  "I understand," he said, though the tone of his voice said he d
idn't at all, and given half an opportunity he would have jumped into her life, boots first, demanding to know all the whys and wherefores of her self-exile. "And I'll make my boys understand. We won't bother you. But we are your closest neighbors and… well, would you like our number in case you need anything?"

  "Is it an unlisted number?" she asked, opening both doors before turning to look through the screen at him.

  "No."

  "Then I have a phone book and I'll call if I need to. Thank you." He nodded and looked as if he wanted to say more, maybe ask a few questions, prolong the conversation somehow. But his presence on her porch was making her anxious and edgy, and she was eager to be away from him. "Tell him I liked his map, will you?"

  "Sure."

  "Good-bye."

  "Good-bye."

  She closed the door in his face and sighed when she finally heard his footsteps moving away toward the truck. She leaned against the door and looked down at her hands. They were trembling uncontrollably.

  She bunched them into fists, digging trimmed nails into her palms as she chanted, "His name is Gil Howlett. He's a Kansas farmer. He has two sons. He doesn't want to hurt me."

  Late that night, long after the boys and Matthew had gone to bed, Gil Howlett stood at his bedroom window, staring at a small grouping of lights almost a mile away. The view from the window was as familiar to him as the face in the mirror every morning. He knew every dark curve and crest in the night as well as he knew every ripple in the land by day. The distant lights couldn't be coming from anywhere other than the old Averback farmhouse.

  Didn't the woman ever sleep? he wondered. For weeks the lights had burned until dawn. Or was there some reason for her to sleep with the lights on all night?

  He'd heard the rumors about her. He'd seen the Illinois license plates on the forest-green Porsche parked in the garage, and he'd been told she was from Chicago. Frank Schulman was apparently the only one to get a good look at her the morning she wandered into his real estate office in town asking about a house to rent by the month. A somewhat unusual request from a stranger, from anyone really, as most of the souls in Colby were either passing through briefly or they were staying for the long haul.

  Still, Frank had told her there were a few places to rent in town. But she'd insisted on something out of town, narrowing the choices even further. Frank said he'd tried not to stare or appear shocked when she removed her dark glasses to look at his rental book. But the plain fact was he couldn't help himself. He'd told Gil her face looked like the White Sox had used it for batting practice.

  Lowering his gaze from the isolated lights, he sighed and tossed his pants over the arm of his grandmother's rocking chair, as he had nearly every night of his adult life.

  A mystery woman in Colby, Kansas, was news indeed, but it wasn't going to be the first time he'd disappointed his neighbors with his lack of information regarding the only woman within eight square miles of him. As far as he was concerned all women were mysteries. He'd been married twice and hadn't known either woman any better than he knew the one across the way.

  He turned out the light and nestled down between the blankets. The sheets were cold, and he missed having a woman beside him to keep him warm. He missed whispering in the dark and the way a woman smelled during sex. He missed thinking he was sharing something important with someone who cared about him. He missed the sounds women make when they're happy and contented. He missed…

  He punched his pillow twice to get it into the right shape for sleeping. Thinking about women never did him any good. He could go on for days with all the things he missed about a woman, but there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell of him taking another one into his bed… at least not until he met one he could understand.

  TWO

  April showers were sure to bring May flowers, if they didn't drown everything first. That week of rain in Kansas was like forty days and forty nights of rain anywhere else. Day after day was dark and gloomy and wet, and though the radio weatherman didn't sound too alarmed, Dorie spent one entire morning drawing plans for an ark.

  It was amazing the things she found to occupy her time.

  Still not ready to face life beyond the walls of the old Averback farmhouse, and extremely tired of limping, she started climbing the stairs to the second floor five and six times a day, turning around and coming back down again.

  With no inclination toward making plans for a future and a healthy aversion to housekeeping, she'd left most of the furniture in the house under dustcovers. But on occasion, she would uncover a desk or a trunk or an old toy box and explore the contents.

  The Averbacks had had three children—two sons and a daughter—and were avid hunters. The boys played high school sports, and one later joined the service. The daughter went to college at KSU. One of the children had produced a grandchild according to the old pictures in the attic. Then suddenly, about seven or eight years ago, everyone moved away.

  Overall, Dorie decided they were a pretty nice family.

  Gil Howlett must have liked them too. She found many pictures labeled "Mike and Henry with Gil" or "Henry and Gil Howlett" or "Prom night, Beth and Gil Howlett".

  With slightly more than a mild interest she'd studied the pictures. In some of them Gil looked much like his older son did now. Tall, gangly, awkward. In all of them he had the same broad smile and bright—sometimes happy, sometimes mischievous, sometimes pondering—eyes he'd had on the front porch that day. It was stunning to think that Gil Howlett had spent his whole life exactly where he was now.

  Of course, Dorie's favorite pastime was waiting for the Howletts' daily visits. She and Baxter played hide-and-seek—she standing a foot or more behind the old lace curtains, watching him walk backward to the barn or the field, scanning each window for some sign of her. He took to leaving her pictures of his family marked, "Me, Uncle Matthew, Fletcher, and Dad" and his dog "Emily", his cat "Emily", and Fletcher's hamsters "Emily and Elmo." She in turn took to leaving him cookies in a freezer bag or a coffee can on the bottom step of the front porch.

  For two weeks this arrangement worked pretty well despite the hesitation in Gil when Baxter would bound up on the porch to leave or receive a gift; or the way he would pause with indecision, study the second-floor windows, then join the boys in the truck and drive away.

  Pretending she wasn't locked up in the house alone was hard for him. She sensed he would have been content to simply wave at her once or twice a day. But seeing hide nor hair of her for days on end—save a bag or two of cookies—seemed to disturb him a great deal.

  She'd known people like him before. People whose parenting skills were second nature to them and were applied to everyone in their lives—whether they needed to be parented or not. People who thought everyone was a friend until their friendship was betrayed. People who trusted first and paid later. She knew people like that. She'd been one once.

  It was Fletcher, however, who drew Dorie out of the house first.

  Still early spring, too early in the afternoon for the Howletts' second visit, she heard heavy-booted footsteps on her front porch. Cautious as ever, she went from window to window looking for the intruder. She found him seated on the porch swing with his back to her.

  She didn't recognize him or what he was doing at first, but it wasn't long before she saw a cookie go unbroken into his mouth. A cookie meant for Baxter, for a picture of the ugliest pink pig she'd ever seen.

  She opened the front door and stepped out on the porch. He stood up quickly, with one arm circling the cookie can and the other brushing crumbs from his fingers to his pants. His expression was clear, direct, curious, much like his father's—and, amazingly, without a trace of guilt.

  "Hi," she said.

  "Hi."

  "Why aren't you in school today?"

  "Conference day."

  "The parent-teacher kind?" she asked, letting the screen door close softly behind her. She wasn't sure if it was his open, unpretentious interest in the scars and discolorati
ons on her face or the fact that he was a cookie thief, caught red-handed, who still had the nerve to pop another cookie into his mouth right under her nose that appealed to her. But there was something about Fletcher Howlett that she innately liked. "The kind where your algebra teacher tells your dad that you're doing your best, or that you're not living up to your potential? The kind that makes or breaks a driver's license? That kind of conference day?"

  He didn't look as surprised to hear her talking about his algebra grades as he was suspiciously interested in the source of her knowledge.

  "Did my dad tell you about that?"

  "No. I heard it on the radio." She got the startled response she was hoping for and was pleased. "Or maybe it was an early-morning broadcast under my bedroom window. I can't remember," she said, walking past him to sit on the swing and gather some heat from the sunshine. There was a bicycle leaning against the other end of the porch, near the steps. She smiled inwardly at his present mode of transportation. "You're eating Baxter's cookies," she pointed out calmly.

  "Yeah, I know." He sat down beside her, then tipped the can in her direction, offering her one. "At home we have to get his permission to eat one."

  She wanted to smile, even chuckle, but instead she hummed her understanding. "I have a younger brother too. Seems as if I spent most of my youth teaching him some very good lessons about life."

  "Mine's a pain in the"—he glanced at her and grinned—"neck. And they let him get away with murder," he said, speaking of his father and uncle.

  "Mine too. In fact, I'm convinced that if it weren't for me, my brother would be a no-account bum today. My mother was so busy riding me about golden rules and standing up straight and being a good girl… well, I had to teach him everything."

  "I know that one," he said, nodding sagely, as if wise beyond his years.

  "However," she said pointedly. "Those are Baxter's cookies. You haven't drawn me any pictures."

  "You really want me to?" He grinned, a challenge in his eyes.