Even If Page 2

  Finch watched her open and close her mouth like an idiot for a minute before he set his mouth. He turned to leave before she could ask any more questions—or non-questions.

  Lillian slowly dropped back into her chair, barely registering the way it rolled slightly, causing her to grasp for the desk to steady herself. This cannot be happening.

  Three months. It had been three long months since she’d moved out—since she’d called her mom and her mom’s friends from the motorcycle shop where she worked for help. Without hesitation they’d arrived, lining the street with the trucks they drove in the winter months. Men and women she’d known all of her life strode into her house, packed everything up, kept Drew away, and whisked her to her new apartment in one day.

  By the time Lillian had arrived for work the following Monday, she was exhausted from moving, and emotionally drained. She poured herself into work and refused to think about Drew. At least during the day. She worked, went home, and watched hours of Netflix. Happy Netflix. Shows that distracted her. She didn’t let herself think…until the darkness closed in and the haunting loneliness of each evening reminded her of what she’d lost.

  For weeks Lillian had cried herself to sleep. Then she began to grow numb—until Drew called to say she had left a box in the closet at their townhouse. She let him bring it over—mostly to show him how much better off she was without him. When he stepped into her apartment that night, her mind had taunted even as her heart raced.

  “See, Drew? See my new apartment and my independence and how totally, wonderfully fine I am without you? See how you and Hilary didn’t wreck me forever? I’m doing just fine, thankyouverymuch.”

  But when he left, she had curled up on her couch and dissolved into lonely tears. That short meeting had not only started her tears all over again, it had solidified the end of the relationship. Which was good, she knew. She really did. But her heart wasn’t so great at listening to logic.

  Lillian finally decided she didn’t want to cry about Drew anymore. She started checking out books at the Library and reading instead of watching T.V. She made a habit of going to the bakery across the street every Saturday morning. The bakery owner—a kind, warm woman in her mid-fifties—would often sit and talk with her, smoothing out the jagged edges of her loneliness. Feeding her soul with kindness and chocolate croissants.

  Lillian had pulled herself together. Moved on. But now? What was she going to do now? She couldn’t work for Drew. Not day after day after day. Not ever.

  Lillian snapped back to the present and sent an office-wide notice through their instant messaging system for the employees to meet in the conference room. Her trembling fingers made the simple task take much longer than it should have. She clasped her hands together, wondering how she was going to be calm enough in five minutes to be in the same room with him, let alone take meeting notes.

  She stilled, a decision washing over her.

  Lillian walked purposefully to the meeting, ignoring the mix of shock and annoyance on her coworkers’ faces when she pushed the door a little too forcefully. It banged loudly against the wall before she could catch it.

  Gary Finch sighed and angled his gaze over the glasses perched on his nose. “Thanks for joining us, Miss Rodgers. Have a seat.”

  Lillian faltered. Opened and closed her mouth like a dying fish—for the second time in ten minutes. She knew what to say, but had no idea how to say it. Or how to push the words beyond her dry throat.

  Drew crooked an eyebrow at her. His lips curved into a small smile. Did he think this would give him access to a restart? Um…no. A sudden calm overtook Lillian. She squared her shoulders.

  “Sorry, Sir, I just thought you should know that I won’t be able to work here any longer,” she said, her voice only trembling slightly. All eyes volleyed from her to Mr. Finch. Drew’s smile fell out of place, pulling the blood from his face down with it.

  The phones around the branch rang, echoing from her desk and to the device in the middle of the table. The stares of the group swung back to Lillian. She took a step back and gestured toward the phone.

  “Someone might want to get that,” she said, then turned on her heel and left.

  Chapter Two

  Chuck Davis passed the woman from apartment 608 once every so often—usually, on the stairs or in the parking garage. Tonight, as he rounded the corner, Chuck nearly ran into her. She glanced up at him, but her eyes were red, her face…splotchy. Her hair was shorter, too. Not that he normally noticed that kind of thing, but it was significantly shorter. The chestnut layers framed her face, emphasizing hazel eyes. She mumbled an apology and continued her military-like charge up the stairs.

  Man, she cries a lot, Chuck thought as he sidestepped her. He winced. Not fair, Davis. It’s only been the two times. The rest of the time she’s just incredibly distracted.

  When Chuck first noticed that the pretty brunette had moved into his building months before, a strange squeeze had worked through his chest. A few weeks later, his friends that managed the apartments offered him the building maintenance position. When he accepted, Chuck tried to tell himself it had nothing to do with her.

  It couldn’t really, could it? After all, it had been years since a woman had turned his head. This one usually had her eyes down, and even if she looked his way, he didn’t think she recognized him. Or she just pretended she didn’t. He couldn’t blame her. He still felt like a massive jerk for making her cry in the hallway at Bittercreek that night, and could only hope she’d been too upset to remember him.

  What had compelled him to tease a complete stranger like that anyway? It was something his dad used to do. Chuck shook his head as he continued down the stairs at a jog. Yup, it had been years since he’d been attracted to a woman. And he had to go and notice one that was withdrawn, sad, and distracted. He chided himself and stuffed the attraction down. Out of sight. Out of mind.

  He tried to remain focused as he drove a group of teens from his church’s youth group to a concert. He hollered, jumped up and down, and sang along to all of the songs. He drove everyone home in the giant church van and waited in the church parking lot until their parents arrived. At home, he fell into bed, exhausted. Images of the pretty brunette from 608 climbing the stairs with a tear streaked face played on the edges of his mind as he drifted off to sleep.

  Chuck awoke the next morning long before the sun rose. He had dreamt of his dad again. He dreamt of him often, of sharing a Saturday morning breakfast at Nan’s. Of camping and fishing. His dad laughing. His dad singing in church, hands spread before him in worship. Of his dad’s rich voice. The way he always seemed to have a smile tucked away inside, no matter what was happening around him.

  “Above all, Son, they need to know that God loves them,” his dad had said in the dream the night before.

  “Who?” Chuck had asked.

  His dad looked him in the eye and smiled. “Everyone.”

  Sleep faded away, pulling the warmth of the dream with it. Chuck’s throat closed. The dreams were blessed torture. Always so real. Always over so soon.

  Always a reminder of what once was and what could never be.

  The alarm on his phone screeched, startling him. Why did I set my alarm for six in the morning? Chuck rubbed his eyes before awareness dawned. That’s right. Nan asked me to come over and check out her oven.

  Chuck fumbled on the nightstand for the phone. He pressed the “off” button as he swung his legs over the bed and scratched at his bare chest. He could hear the gurgling of the coffee pot, thankful, as he was every morning, that he had invested in one with a brew timer. And that he had remembered to set it the night before.

  By the time he showered and dressed in work clothes, the pot was full and waiting. Chuck poured a cup and sat at the long island in his one-bedroom apartment, Bible open in front of him. When the sunlight inched up his walls and slanted across the stainless-steel countertop, Chuck set his Bible aside and opened his laptop. He checked the news. Sports. His bank acc
ount. Before he shut down the computer, he logged onto the Ada County Jail website.

  For the next ten minutes, he over scrolled every face that had been booked the night before, as well as any others he might have missed earlier in the week. Just as he had every day for the last five weeks.

  Satisfied he’d seen them all, Chuck closed his computer. He took a deep breath and hung his head. Just like every other day for the last five weeks, he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed to not see the face he was looking for among the inmates.

  Chapter Three

  Lillian jolted upright in bed. Her t-shirt was damp with sweat, body caught in the twisted sheets. Claustrophobic and shaking, she kicked her way out of the bedding constraints. Much like her dream, Lillian was falling before she knew it, but this time hit the floor shoulder first, the sheet still clinging to her waist.

  “Smooth, Lilly,” she muttered, carefully extracting herself from the cotton trap.

  She gingerly pushed her torso up off the floor and leaned against her bed for a moment to gather her wits and rub her sore shoulder. Cold, hardwood planks pressed into her tailbone. The studio apartment was mostly dark, except for the light streaming beneath the door from the sixth-floor hallway. She groped around the side table next to the sofa-bed for her phone and pressed the home button. The screen lit up, the background a starry sky and snowcapped mountain.

  I need to change that. Enough winter. Time for flowers or butterflies or…something. The time stamped across the middle mocked her.4:12 AM.

  “Seriously?” Lillian groaned to the empty apartment. She checked the clock again, just to be sure. “Honestly, 4 AM?”

  Lillian rose and moved through her daily routine, more out of numb habit than anything. She gathered the crumpled blanket and sheets before stuffing them into the hope chest in the corner. The bed was folded back into the sofa. The couch cushions stacked against the wall were shoved back in place on the couch. The rolling coffee table was yanked from the far side of the room and placed precisely in the center of her blue and white chevron rug—a Walmart special.

  Lillian shuffled into the kitchen, wincing when her fingers flipped the switch and the fluorescent lights buzzed on. Bleary eyed, she went through the motions of pouring water into her coffee pot and measuring out coffee grounds, grumbling when she spilled some on the counter and floor. Why-oh-why don’t I have one of those instant coffee makers? The kind with one little pod that brews in less than a minute? Or at least one with a brew timer? Not that she’d had any idea she would be up at four in the morning…

  She leaned against the counter, her eyes drooping and head bobbing. At last the machine gave three small beeps, indicating that the brew was done. She found a bowl-sized mug in the cupboard. She filled it, then lifted it to her lips, lightly blowing across the top of the coffee. At last she took a careful drink, relishing the robust flavor as it washed over her tongue.

  Lillian turned off the kitchen light and picked her way across the room in the dark to her window. From the day she’d moved in, the wide window sill had been her favorite perch in the small studio. She settled in, gazing forlornly at the moon and lights of the city. The courtyard six stories below was quiet, the moon full and bright.

  Though she was bone weary, Lillian knew better than to try to sleep. She didn’t want to dream about Drew and Hilary again.

  Drew. And Hilary. Her stomach twisted. How could one short encounter undo three months of hard earned healing? The sight of their entwined bare legs, only partially covered by twisted sheets flashed in her mind. Again. Would she ever forget how that felt? She guessed she should count herself lucky that she hadn’t seen more than a little skin. It could have been worse. Much worse.

  She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger until colors and spots danced over the dark spaces, crowding out the salacious images.

  “Ow. Too hard, Lil.” She blinked rapidly. The pictures flowed right back in.

  She sighed. A person could make a fortune selling brain bleach. A verse from her few years in Christian college worked around the recesses of her memory, just out of reach, but close enough to stir something in her heart.

  Before she could explore the thought, movement in the moonlight caught her attention. She sat up straighter, straining her eyes to find what had moved in her peripheral vision. Down there. On the roof of the three story parking garage next door. A dark sedan moved slowly through the shadows, its brake lights glaring at her for spying as it parked. A man emerged from the driver’s door, glancing around, a tiny beam of light shining from his hand. It looked like the flashlight app Lillian had on her phone. She set her coffee on the side table and pressed her nose against the window as a female emerged from the passenger’s side, her hand clenched around something small.

  Together the couple crept forward, groping along the far wall of the open roof until they came to the spot they were searching for. Looking around again, the man reached inside what appeared to be a hole in the top of the wall and pulled something out. Lillian squinted. What was that? A box? The man opened it and took something from inside, quickly shoving it in his pocket. The woman just as quickly crammed whatever she held into the box and ran to the car while the man dropped it back into the hole. He slid into the driver’s seat and shut his door. The brake lights blinked at her again, then turned away as the car crept down the ramp and out of sight.

  Lillian sat back and let out the breath she’d held hostage in her lungs, her mind racing with possibilities.

  Did I just witness a drug deal? But what kind of dealer just leaves his goods out in the open? Or maybe they are setting up a hit on someone and this is the exchange of information…

  Lillian swiped her thumb across the face of her cell phone, then pressed the keypad, thinking she should call the police.

  91—her hand stilled. What would she say? She hadn’t thought to get a license plate number or even a description of the couple. They were…young? She was…blond? And then what?

  “Yeah, this guy and girl drove onto a parking garage and found a box and took something out of it…” Now that she thought through telling that to an actual police officer, she realized how ridiculous it sounded. It was odd. That didn’t make it criminal.

  Lillian pressed “end” and set the phone in her lap. “New rule, Lilly, you have to stop reading true crime novels before bed.”

  She poured another cup of coffee, pondering the strange incident, pressing away thoughts of bare skin, smug glances, and the impending realization that she would have to figure out the whole job thing sooner than later.

  When the last drop of coffee was gone, Lillian padded back into the kitchen. She set the mug in the sink and headed for the shower. Once she had toweled off and dressed in her most comfortable jeans, a t-shirt, and a faded pink sweatshirt, she checked the time again. 6:03 AM

  “Finally. Nan will be open.” She locked her door behind her and pocketed the keys. I do believe that carbs could be the magic cure for this situation.

  Chapter Four

  Lillian stepped into the small bakery, inhaling the warmth and comfort of baked bread and fresh coffee. The sun was barely peeking through the streets of downtown Boise, and the March morning air held a bite. Vintage Edison style bulbs hung above every table, and an Etta James song filtered through the speakers, drawing Lillian into the comfort and safety of her favorite place, Daily Bread Bakery. The owner, Nan, looked up from the counter and beamed.

  “Well, Lilly! I haven’t seen you in ages. Get back here, girl!” She waved her arms, and the ball of dough in her grip slipped and flopped to the ground.

  “Ah nuts,” the spunky woman muttered staring down at the lump.

  Lillian chuckled and stepped around the counter into Nan’s hug, not caring if she got flour all over her sweatshirt. Nan patted her back, surely doing just that.

  “You saw me last Saturday, Nan,” she dryly reminded the woman. Nan pulled back to look into Lillian’s face. A streak of flour crinkled on her cheek
.

  “Well, then I’ve never seen you here so early.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. And I need to go grocery shopping. All I have in my cupboards for breakfast is oatmeal, and that’s not going to cut it this morning.”

  Nan grimaced and shuddered. “Oatmeal?” her mouth twisted around the word as if it tasted bad on her tongue. “Oh, Honey, let me help you.”

  Nan spun away and rounded the counter again. She slipped a mitt on her hand before opening the oven on the back wall. She pulled a baking sheet from the top row and placed it on the counter. With the help of a flat spatula from a hook on the wall, Nan slid a chocolate croissant—Lillian’s favorite—from the pan and placed it on a white glass plate with crimped edges. Give Us This Day was hand painted in a circle of gold cursive in the center.

  Nan set her hands on ample hips, her sharp brown eyes indignant, “And I bet you already filled up on green tea or some nonsense, didn’t you?”

  Lillian laughed, “No. I never run out of coffee. But I definitely wouldn’t say no to a cup of yours.”

  The door jangled behind them, and an older man in a frayed flannel jacket strode to the counter, side by side with Lillian, and slapped two dollar bills on the counter. His wrinkled face folded deep into what must have been a permanent scowl.

  “Morning, Jack,” Nan said brightly. “I’ll have your coffee out in a minute.”

  Jack grunted in response and grabbed the newspaper that was kept on top of the pastry case and tucked it under his arm. He strode to the nearest corner table and settled in, the newspaper crinkling when he spread it on the table.

  Nan smiled and winked conspiratorially at Lillian, who grinned back and accepted the coffee and pastry. She preferred the tables along the front window and set her plate and mug on the one furthest from the door. She walked back to Jack and asked for the classifieds. He wordlessly handed her the requested paper without glancing up. She thanked him and settled at her table with a small sigh.