Finger Prints (2 page)

The second ring brought her to her feet. Once in the kitchen, she hesitated for an instant with her hand on the receiver before lifting it with a studied calm. “Hello?” she asked cautiously.

“Carly?”

She didn’t immediately recognize the voice, yet it sounded friendly enough. “Yes.”

“Carly, it’s Dennis.” Dennis Sharpe. Of course. History teacher at the academy. Coach of the basketball team. Tall. Good-looking. Personable. “I’m sorry I missed you this afternoon. I had hoped to catch you before you left, but you must have escaped before we got back.”

Escaped. A potent word. With a wary smile, she stretched the phone cord toward the kitchen table, settled into one of its canvas director’s chairs and forced a note of buoyancy into her voice. “I waded through your boys on my way out. Congratulations! Sounds like quite a win.”

“The guys played a great game. Particularly against Palmer. I was proud of them.”

“Are we in first place now?”

He chuckled. “The season’s barely begun. I suppose you could say we’re somewhere up there, for what it’s worth.”

“Dennis,” she chided lightly, “where’s that school spirit?”

“That school spirit is back at school. It’s the weekend. Which is why I’m calling. I know it’s late, and I’ve got to be on the road before long, but I thought I’d give it another stab. How about dinner? Something quick and light in the Square? I’ve got to have something to eat before I get going, and I’d hate to do it alone.”

With a sad smile, Carly propped her elbow on the arm of her chair and rested her head on her hand. Poor man. He’d been trying for dinner since September. Without success. “Oh, I don’t know, Dennis. It’s been a long week and I’m really exhausted.”

“That’s why you need to get out. To unwind and relax a little.”

She
knew
that she needed to unwind and relax. But “getting out,” after the scare she’d had earlier, would never do. It was far safer to stay home. “You’re sweet to call, but…I don’t think so. You see, I’ve got this date with a hot bath. We were planning to lose ourselves in lots of bubbles and a good book.”

“How can you do this to me, Carly?” Dennis kidded, his voice the faintest bit hoarse. “You mean to say that I’m competing with a bathtub? What kind of rivalry is that?”

She laughed, but refrained from comment. It was always easier to change the subject. “You’re headed for the Cape?”

He gave a magnanimous sigh. “Guess so. I’ve got some work to do on the house before winter sets in. It won’t be long now, and I’m really behind.”

“Your cottage isn’t winterized?”

“Oh, it is. Or it will be once I’ve recalked the windows and put on the storms, turned off the outdoor valves, oiled the furnace. That type of thing.”

“You’ve got your weekend cut out for you,” she commented, half in envy, despite the work involved. There was something to be said for physical labor as therapy.

“Want to come? You’re welcome to, you know. In fact, I’d love it if you were along. It gets lonesome down there.”

Carly grinned. “Come on, Dennis. Don’t tell me that you aren’t in touch with every neighbor for miles. You happen to be one of the most outgoing people I know.” From the first, she’d been struck by his way with people, not only the kids at school, but the acquaintances he’d run into on the few occasions when they’d lunched off-campus. It would be easy to warm up to him, which was all the more reason for Carly to remain aloof.

“Yeah, but it’d be different if you were there. I really enjoy talking with you, Carly. You’re one bright lady.”

Her smile was gentle in its sad fashion. “Flattery will get you nowhere, my friend.”

“Then what will?” he blurted out.

“Oh—” she rolled her eyes to the ceiling and offered a tongue-in-cheek quip “—maybe a yacht in the Caribbean or a villa in Majorca. I could use a little sun about now.”

“First a bathtub. Now the sun. I can’t win, can I?” When she remained silent, he sighed in resignation. “Well, I guess I’ll be going. Sure you won’t join me even for a pizza?”

Her eyes held a melancholy look. “Thanks, Dennis, but I’d better not. You have a good weekend, though. See you Monday?”

He paused, as if wanting to say more, then gave up. “Right. So long, Carly.”

After a quiet “Bye-bye,” she replaced her receiver on its hook, took a sip of juice, set the glass down on the counter again, then crossed through the foyer and short hall to her bedroom. When she returned to the living room, she was barefoot and wore a hip-length tunic and jeans. Turning the lights down low, she stood by the window. Traffic on Memorial Drive, and on Storrow Drive across the Charles, was at its peak, heavy in both directions, whipping commuters home to family and friends. How envious she was.

Slipping down onto the window sill, she drew the drapes around behind her, enclosing herself in a semicocoon of darkness to gaze out on the world unseen. These were the hardest times for her, these times of leisure when, alone and admittedly lonely, she inevitably looked back.

Warm images filled her head of the comfortable Lyons home on the outskirts of Omaha, of her parents standing arm in arm in the large front hall when her father returned from a day at the office, of her brothers’ lusty squeals coming from odd corners of the house. The boys had been rowdy by nature. Three of them, all close in age and strapping. When she’d come along, far from being the demure little girl her parents had expected, they found themselves with a tomboy who matched the boys round for round. Her brothers were grown now, each married and with children of his own. Only she had failed to find that niche.

A tiny smile touched her lips as she thought back to the imp she’d once been. A child filled with laughter and joy. Until her mother had died. It had been hard on them all—on her father, on the boys. When a woman in her early forties died as suddenly as Charlene Lyons had, it was always hard on the survivors. But on Carly—then Robyn—it had been the hardest. She’d been twelve at the time, just entering adolescence. As suddenly as the mother she’d adored was gone, so was the mischievous child, leaving in her place a more serious teenager, industrious, responsible, ever pushing herself despite her father’s and brothers’ protests.

She hadn’t been unhappy. Rather, she’d been busy, burying her private grief in a newfound existence. Much as she did now.

Against her will, her thoughts returned to the present. She struggled with them, fought them, suffered with them, then bolted from the window. With the quickest glance at her watch, she ran to the kitchen, picked up the phone and punched out her father’s number. Her throat was tight, her gaze desperate. She needed him, needed to hear that familiar voice just now.

After five long rings, she was rewarded.

“Hello?”

To her ears, the sound of John Lyons’s deep voice, seeming immune to both age and a fragile heart, was golden. “Dad! You
are
home!”

“Of course I’m home!” His words were shaped by an audible smile. “You know what my orders are.”

Carly breathed deeply, savoring this contact that had the power to defer the darker thoughts that plagued her. “Oh, yes, I know what your orders are,” she countered smartly. “I also know that you’ve been regularly resisting them.” Her tone lightened as her own smile flowed across the miles. “How are you, dad?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Just sitting here relaxing with my feet up and my daily allotment of wine in hand. How are
you
?”

“Not bad.” The last thing she wanted to do was to burden her father with her woes. It was enough to talk with him, to draw from his indomitable strength. “What did the doctor say? You saw him yesterday, didn’t you?”

“I certainly did.”

“And…?”

“And he says that for a man who had a major heart attack six months ago, I’m a wonder.”

Carly gave a teasing guffaw. “We all knew that, even
without
William Drummond’s medical wizardry. So he says you’re doing well?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been given the go-ahead to play golf. The proof of the pudding.”

“No kidding? That’s great!”

“
I
think so.” He gave a dry laugh. “Too bad the season’s just about gone. It’s been bad enough having to stop smoking cold turkey, and Chablis isn’t quite the Scotch I’d like, but it’s my golf that’s been most sorely missed.”

“By whom?” Carly teased. “You or Uncle Tim? I half suspect that
his
fun is in being able to trounce you on the course.”

Her father came readily to his brother’s defense. “He’s damn good at it. I’m lucky he’ll play with me. Besides, I’ve been that much more fortunate in business. It’s the least I can do, letting him win once in a while.” Carly’s Uncle Timothy was as different from his fraternal twin as night was from day. He had shunned the business world in favor of a life of ease, and now his summers were spent as the golf pro at a suburban Omaha club, his winters in a similar role in Arizona.

“Will you go to Phoenix this year?” Carly asked.

“I’m planning to head there for several weeks after I see you in New York.”

New York. Thanksgiving. Carly had been looking forward to it ever since she’d come east. Now it was barely three weeks away. She felt excited, and sad. More than anything, she would have liked to have gone home. But it wasn’t to be, not for a while, at least. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced a brightness to her voice that told only half the story. “I’m really looking forward to it, dad. It seems so long.” Gritting her teeth, she fought the tears in her eyes. She wasn’t usually this sensitive, or rather, she was usually better able to hide her sensitivity. Whether this lapse had been caused by the afternoon’s fright or simply the approach of the holidays, she wasn’t sure.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” her father asked quickly.

She squeezed her eyes shut. A small tear trickled from each corner. “Sure,” she managed to reply. “I’m okay.” She hadn’t wanted to do this. Her father would know in a second that she was
not
okay. It was perhaps one of the reasons they’d always been close. He could read her well.

“You sound as though you’re on the verge of tears.”

Unfortunately she’d passed that point. Her eyes were brimming now, her cheeks growing wetter by the minute. She should have waited to call, she chided herself belatedly. But she’d needed him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, muffling the receiver against her mouth. “I guess…it’s just….” What was it? Fear? Loneliness? A simple need to be held? Dissolving into silent weeping, she couldn’t say a word.

Her father seemed to understand. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he crooned, his voice, despite its under-current of pain, gently soothing her as his arms might have done had he been there. “You just let it out. We all need to do it sometimes.”

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…to burden you….”

“Burden me?” he countered with such tenderness that the flow of her tears only increased. “You’re my daughter. I love you. And you’ve never in your life been a burden to me.”

“But…all this….” She sniffled, waving her arm in a comprehensive arc her father could only imagine. “How did…I ever get myself…in such a mess?”

With a gentle, “Shh” every so often, her father waited until her quiet sobs subsided. “Don’t berate yourself, sweetheart,” he began. “I’m so very proud of you. We all are. You faced the worst of danger, yet you went out on a limb for something you believed in.”

“I know,” she whispered, extracting a tissue from its box on the kitchen counter. “But I sometimes…wonder what good it does. Sure, Barber and Culbert are serving time, but I feel as though
I’m
the one being…punished.” Pausing, she dabbed her eyes. “If only I’d listened to the others. They told me not to push it.”

“It
had
to be pushed, sweetheart. Arson is a crime. People died in those fires.”

Oh, yes. People did die. She winced at the finality of it. “I know,” she murmured, and she did. All too well. She also knew that, given the same circumstances, she would do it all again. Yet she couldn’t contain the note of bitterness in her voice. Only with her father could she vent it. She could count on him to love her nonetheless. “It’s just that there are times when I wish it had been someone else who’d been hellbent on righting the wrongs of the world. There are times when I don’t like the consequences I’m stuck with, times when I feel so alone.”

“You’ve got friends, haven’t you?” her father asked. “I can’t imagine you teaching at that school of yours without meeting people.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got friends. But it’s different.”

“You’re still staying in a lot?” Now there was gentle accusation in his question. It was something they’d discussed before.

Carly dabbed at her nose and shrugged. “I get out. But I always feel as if I’ve got to be on my guard. It’s so tiring sometimes.” Her voice broke. Again, her father waited patiently until she’d regained her composure.

“It’ll take time, sweetheart. They told you that from the start. You’ll gain your confidence little by little. Look at me. When I first came home from the hospital, I was sure that each day would be my last, that any bit of exertion would bring on that next attack. Then I woke up the second day and the third day and the fourth. After a week, I’d begun to hope. After a month, I’d begun to believe. That’s it, sweetheart. You’ve got to believe that you can forge a new life independent of the old.” His voice softened even more. “You can’t spend your days looking back. You’ve got to look ahead now.”

This was what she loved about her father, understanding mixed with a gentle dose of reality. And he was right in everything he’d said. “You speak with such confidence,” she quipped, retrieving her poise.

“I
am
confident. Look at your own life. Your mother died and you pulled yourself together to become someone she would have been proud of. When Matthew died, you did the same. You’ve got a strength that many people lack. Don’t you see that? You’ll survive this, too. Just wait. In a year or two you’ll have found yourself. You’ll feel confident. You’ll be happy. You’re that kind of person, sweetheart. It’s in your nature.”

Her lips grew tight. “Then why do I sit here feeling sorry for myself? Feeling sorry for myself! How does
that
jibe with the person you describe?”