Long Time Coming Read online

  I started up my Honda and took off, though with a stop sign at every block along the grid of residential streets, I couldn’t move nearly as fast as I wanted to. Houses of old friends passed by on either side: Sandy Elledge’s southern colonial with its white, two-story columns; Mark Anthony Waggoner’s Tudor cottage with its concrete fish pool. I had not kept up with any of my old friends, which was probably wrong of me. But what could they possibly say? Oh, hello. Joy. I haven’t seen you since…when? The funeral?

  My fingers felt like ice, and I realized that I was gripping the steering wheel as though it, too, were trying to escape. Such was the effect this town had on me, ever since those long, dark summer months between Jenny’s death and my departure for college. That time had been the closest thing to hell I’d ever experienced, and it remained in my mind as no more than a blur. A blur of pain, sadness, and—in some way I still resisted thinking about—fear. I had been happy here, once. I could remember that. But those dark days had successfully stained my memory of every rock, tree, and living soul in Wharton.

  Including the garden-like library grounds that I was currently driving past. One sideways glance at the sculptured bushes, paved pathways, and iron benches, and an unbidden flash of memory assaulted my brain. Jenny and I had loafed around here after school one Friday, trying to decide how to wear our hair for graduation. I could see her clearly as she sprawled along the ornate bench seat, her long legs flung over the backrest, her wavy red hair flowing nearly to the ground. When we were children, I was the cute one, but puberty had reversed things. Jenny’s skinny frame had morphed into a tall, lithe body that drew looks even from grown men. All I had acquired was a bad case of acne.

  I think I’ll wear it up, she had said for the fourth time, running a hand through her shining locks. Unless you want us both to wear it the same? She had been unable to reach a decision, and she had asked me to stay over Saturday night.

  By Saturday morning, she was dead.

  I peeled my frozen fingers from the wheel and shook them, cursing myself for letting my mind wander where it shouldn’t go. If I could be in Jenny’s house without feeling pain, there had to be hope for the rest of Wharton, too. But only if I concentrated on the good times.

  Perhaps I should look up some of my old friends, after all. Eighteen years seemed a long time to stay in one town, but if any place on earth could inspire stagnation, I thought uncharitably, Wharton, Kentucky would be it.

  Yet the town seemed determined to prove me wrong. Though empty storefronts were common on the main drag, as I drove away from the town’s center the landscape began to mushroom with new businesses and extra traffic lights. Like most one-horse towns turned generica, Wharton seemed to have sprawled like a string of taffy. Discount chains and franchises had pulled out its ends, leaving the courthouse square stranded in an ever-widening hole.

  As I reached the new Wal-Mart I could see that it had not moved to be alone; rather, its presence had spawned a entirely new string of strip-mall businesses. The traffic I encountered in the maze of connected parking lots was nothing for even a confirmed urbanite to sneeze at, though it did comprise a high ratio of pickup trucks and Reagan-era sedans. I parked the Honda between a mini-truck and an old station wagon, hit the door locks, and stepped out. Few people in Wharton locked their car doors, but I was determined not to let my big-city habits get rusty. The lot was bustling with patrons, and I set out to join the masses. But I had moved only a few feet before a familiar coldness surged within my chest, paralyzing my limbs even as my heart pounded like a jackhammer.

  Dammit! I cursed, trying to shake off the sensation. Was this how it would be every time I saw a crowd? I quickened my steps in defiance, my head down, my gaze on the pavement. He was not here. Why would he be?

  "Stop it!" I grumbled out loud, annoyed with myself. I was not supposed to act like this. I had vowed to return to Wharton prepared and in control, and I never backed away from a resolution. If eventually I had to deal with him, I would. I would look him in the eye and not give an inch. I would tell him to go to hell and be done with him.

  I marched on to the entrance. Wharton wasn’t Philadelphia, but it wasn’t just a wide spot in the road, either. It was a town of 10,000 people—and in a town of 10,000 people, running into someone you know in every crowd isn’t necessarily a given.

  But it’s close.

  "Oh, my God! Joy! I can’t believe it’s really you!"

  I hadn’t even cleared the automatic doors when the eyes of the official Wal-Mart greeter widened like saucers; and within seconds, I had been wrapped in an immense bear hug. "I heard you were coming back," the woman exclaimed over my shoulder, "and then I heard there was a moving van over at your parents, but still, you never believe anything until you see it, and—my God, I can’t believe how great you look!"

  I filtered names through my brain with desperation. The woman was wearing a nametag—as was evidenced by the sharp stabbing pain in my collarbone—but it did me little good at the moment. I could picture her in a maid’s costume for some play or other, and wearing Dracula teeth at the French club’s haunted house. But she was several years younger than me, and my latter days in Wharton, for a lot of reasons, were not memories my adult mind had chosen to reinforce. Her name started with a D. Doris? Doreen? Dinah?

  "Denée!" I smiled triumphantly, extracting myself tactfully from her generous frame. "How have you been?"

  "Oh, fine, fine," she chirped, peeling off a yellow smiley-face sticker and plastering it to my chest. "Jason and I are still together, you know, and we’ve got the three kids. Tammy’s almost thirteen now, do you believe it?"

  I could not believe it. And I didn’t have the faintest idea who Jason was. But I had to smile at this exuberant woman, who I remembered as funny and a bit outlandish, but definitely genuine. She looked me up and down once more, taking a step back to add to the drama.

  "I can’t get over it. Joy Hudson. What did you do? Join one of those health clubs?"

  Involuntarily, I dipped my chin to look myself over. Had I changed that much? The baby fat was gone, as well as the acne. My hair was shorter and actually styled, as opposed to skinned back into a long ponytail. But it was still the same deep brown color, and I was as oblivious to fashion as ever. "I didn’t realize I looked that different," I confessed.

  Denée laughed heartily, cracking crow’s feet around her eyes and making her middle jiggle. "Oh, girl. You’re a veterinarian, now. Right? That’s so great. Are you working with Schifflen?"

  The smile on my face stiffened a little. Dr. Porter Schifflen, owner of the town’s only vet clinic, was not one of my favorite people. Not since he had looked into my eager, fifteen-year-old face and told me that girls didn’t have the fortitude for veterinary medicine. "No," I answered, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "I’m starting up a housecall practice."

  The saucer-eyes widened further. "No! Get out. You go, girl. Show that S.O.B. some woman-power!"

  I had to grin. Porter Schifflen might so far have succeeded in keeping a strangle-hold on veterinary practice in Wharton, but he hadn’t managed to fool everyone into thinking he was a nice guy.

  "Hey, you can take care of my Rex anytime," she offered, handing another customer a shopping cart and dispensing smiley stickers to two toddlers. "I’ll bet it’s a hit." Her face turned serious all of a sudden, and I braced myself as the coldness returned.

  "I’m so sorry about your daddy," she continued sympathetically. "How’s he doing?"

  I drew in a quick breath—of relief. "He’s hanging in there. Thanks," I whispered, guilt pouring over me. Why should discussing my father’s illness be easier for me than discussing Jenny’s death?

  "Glad to hear it." Denée looked towards the entrance, where a cluster of shoppers had appeared, several carrying packages. "Well, I’ve got to get back to it," she said happily. "Don’t be a stranger now, all right?"

  I agreed, took the proffered cart, and hastily wheeled off toward the cleaning supplies. My legs fel
t a bit wobbly, and I bucked them up. A perfectly harmless meeting with an old friend had no business upsetting me. Particularly when said old friend hadn’t even mentioned Jenny Carver. The omission seemed like a good thing, at least through the household goods and clothing sections. But by the time I found myself dawdling near automotive, a creeping annoyance had begun to plague me. Was it any better for Jenny’s friends to have forgotten her?

  "Well, I’ll be damned!" a tremendously loud male voice boomed. "Joy Hudson!"

  I turned toward the sound, having no idea who might be producing it. Unfortunately, the visuals were little help. The rather immense man standing by the wiper blades was wearing a policeman’s uniform and an ecstatic grin, and I swore I’d never seen him before in my life.

  Then he laughed. It was a deep, melodic, bellyaching laugh, and as soon as I heard it, I knew otherwise.

  "Don’t recognize me, do you?" he asked amiably, stepping forward. "Well hell, I take that as a compliment."

  "Of course I recognize you," I answered. My class’s star defensive lineman had been nothing if not distinctive. His sheer bulk had made him the fear of Wharton High’s greatest adversaries; his thick mop of curly blond hair, invariably parted straight down the middle, had completed the image that earned him his nickname. But in eighteen years he had lost two very notable things: about a hundred pounds, and every last hair follicle.

  "Ox Richards," I said politely, offering a smile.

  He laughed again. "Now, come on, Joy. If you can’t recognize me as a bald man, you could at least manage to forget that old handle." He extended a broad hand. "Good to see you."

  I reached out awkwardly, taken aback by the familiarity of his greeting. Certainly, I knew who he was. We had been in the same schools all the way back to kindergarten. He had thrown up on my desk in the fourth grade. At the seventh grade homecoming, he had asked me to dance—and I had declined. By high school he was a jock, and our interactions consisted mostly of head nods in the hallways. To my knowledge, we had not shared a meaningful one-on-one conversation since his voice had changed.

  He grabbed my hand as if to shake it, then unaccountably, pulled me in for a full-blown, rib-crunching hug. My feet shuffled on the floor in shock, and I didn’t breathe till he released me. "Um," I said weakly, recovering. "You go by Robert, now?"

  "I prefer ‘Assistant Police Chief Richards,’" he answered cheerfully. "But you can call me anything you want."

  "Assistant chief? Congratulations," I remarked, trying to think through the small talk. Was there something about our past I was missing, or did he treat everybody like this now? He was certainly gregarious, even as a teen, but plain, brainy girls like me had not even made his radar screen. Nor, I had to admit, vice versa. Ox was a pleasant enough fellow, but hardly my type.

  "Thanks. Damn, you look good!" he thundered, causing the few patrons in the area who hadn’t already been staring at us to do so. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

  This time, I resisted looking down. I couldn’t possibly look that great at the moment, which only made me wonder how bad I must have looked in high school. "Nothing much," I answered. "Just college, vet school, and making a living."

  "That’s right!" he said brightly. "I should be calling you ‘Dr. Hudson,’ shouldn’t I? I heard you were moving back, but I didn’t believe it."

  He gave me another once over, and I tried hard not to blush. It was an irritating struggle—I hadn’t blushed since my twenties, at least. "Where are you staying?" he asked. "With your folks?"

  I shook my head. I might as well face the music now as later. "I’m buying the old Carver home on Seventh," I said matter-of-factly. "I’m moving in today."

  Ox’s light-blue eyes flickered a bit, but the smile never left his face. "Well, that’s great. I’m glad you’re settling in. Listen," he continued. "I’d offer to help you move, but I’m on the clock till five. So, I’ll ask you this. How long’s it been since you had a Barton’s barbecue?"

  The words caused an instant rumble in my stomach. Barton’s barbecue. Taste bud heaven. "Forever," I answered wistfully. "You shouldn’t have reminded me. Now I’ll have to get one."

  "No, you won’t," he offered quickly. "I’ll get one for you. How about I pick you up at your new place at six?"

  He seemed to sense my hesitation, and he countered it with a warm expression. "You know you’ve got to eat somewhere, Joy. And don’t tell me you’ll have your kitchen all unpacked in a day, because we both know you won’t. Besides," he said, dropping his volume conspiratorially. "It’s the least I can do for throwing up on your desk that time."

  I cracked a grin. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one with a penchant for childhood trivia. Why shouldn’t I have a barbecue with him? Barton’s was hardly a "date" restaurant—we’d be lucky to get a booth. Besides, he was the talkative type, and I had always suspected that my mother’s news of Wharton was filtered for my benefit. A fresh perspective could prove interesting.

  "Okay. Sounds great," I answered, noting with annoyance the undercurrent of anxiety in my voice. Since when had I been nervous at the prospect of a friendly, casual dinner with a member of the opposite sex?

  I shuddered. Since the last time I’d lived in Wharton, that’s when.

  Chapter 3

  Two broken pieces of furniture and one missing box I considered par for the course. At some point during my many previous moves I had ceased to worry about property damage, choosing instead to avoid acquiring things that mattered. The chipped furniture, like almost all the other furniture I owned, was only made of particle board, and I was pretty sure the lost box had contained nothing but out-of-date veterinary journals I should have pitched in the first place.

  The bungalow, now filled with my own furniture, seemed warm and cozy, and though I had not yet been back upstairs, I was feeling quite at home. And—given that a large part of my brain was still working the night shift—bone tired.

  By late afternoon I had managed to unpack most of the essentials, though I had not—as Ox had predicted—come close to finishing the kitchen. The bedroom, however, was quite inviting, and as I pulled the spread neatly into place I couldn’t help but test the mattress.

  I looked up at the functional but water-stained ceiling with pride, happy to have a space to call my own again. Surprisingly, it did feel like mine. This first-floor bedroom had belonged to Jenny’s parents, and since I had only rarely set foot in it back then, it harbored no memories for me one way or the other. I closed my eyes, and would have drifted off soundly had it not been for the annoying beeping of my cell phone.

  I sprung out of the bed and out of the room, swooping up the phone from the kitchen table with my heart beating fast. It would be like this from now on, I thought soberly, every call from my mother evoking the dread of a possible emergency. It was something I would have to live with. "Hello?" I answered breathlessly.

  "Hello, dear," my mother answered. "It’s me. Don’t worry—your father’s fine. But you need to come over here right away. A man has arrived from Michigan, and he says you owe him money—"

  Already? "I’ll be right there, Mom," I answered, reaching for my car keys.

  The drive from my house to my parents’ was only five minutes—a walkable distance if one wasn’t in a hurry. That situation rarely applied to me, however. Particularly not now, when I was so anxious to take charge of my second major acquisition. And no sooner had I turned onto Ash Drive than I saw it: the reason the best house I could afford was a dilapidated bungalow.

  My very own LaBoit Freeport—twenty-six feet of all the amenities a housecall veterinarian could want—wrapped up in one nice, drivable package. The mobile clinic had gutted my savings, but it had been worth it.

  The truck’s original owner, who had decided to go back to graduate school, had offered me a very reasonable deal, as well as some free advice about the perils of the business. But I hadn’t been in much of a position to rethink. With Porter Schifflen’s cronies on the city council and the zoni
ng board, no other veterinarian in the past twenty years had managed to set up shop within the Wharton city limits. With a portable clinic, I knew that I could wiggle around the existing ordinances. Not that I didn’t expect Schifflen to come after me with both barrels—I was rather looking forward to it. In my line of work, getting under the skin of narrow-minded, sexist bullies had become a hobby.

  "Joy, dear," my mother began before I was out of the car. "I had no idea you were expecting this vehicle so soon. We really can’t have it parked here in the street like this. I’m afraid the neighbors will complain. And you must take care of the driver. I offered him a cup of coffee, but he expects to be paid immediately."

  "It’s all right, Mom," I assured her, only slightly irritated that the truck had arrived three days ahead of schedule and without warning. On the whole, I was delighted. "I did agree to pay him on arrival, then put him up in a motel room and take him to the airport," I explained, making my way over to the truck.

  Finding a driver to bring it all the way down from Michigan had cost me another small fortune, but since my father’s discharge from the hospital had necessitated my immediate presence in Wharton, I’d had little choice. "I’ll see if he’ll move the truck over to my house now. If not, I’ll get it right after dinner. Ox Richards can drop me off."

  My mother’s grim expression vanished. "You’ve seen our assistant police chief?" she asked, her eyes sparkling at the prospect.

  I would like to think that she was happy simply because I had made contact with another of the species, but I knew that that was naïve. My apparent inability to "settle down" was, to my continued chagrin, one of my parents’ greatest concerns. My tendency to put work first, leaving precious little time for much else, was an enigma to them both—and another sore spot between us. I was open to a change in priorities, I insisted; I just hadn’t met a man who could effect one.