Saturday

Chapter Twenty-five

SARA woke with a start, not certain where she was for a brief, panicked second. She looked around her bedroom, keeping her eyes on solid things, comforting things. The old chest of drawers that had belonged to her grandmother, the mirror she had found in a yard sale, the armoire that had been so wide her father had helped her take the hinges off the bedroom door so they could squeeze it in.

She sat up in bed, looking out the bank of windows at the lake. The water was rough from last nights storm, and choppy waves rode across the surface. Outside, the sky was a warm gray, blocking the sun, keeping the fog down low to the ground. The house was cold, and Sara imagined that outside was even colder. She took the quilt from the bed with her as she walked to the bathroom, wrinkling her nose as her feet padded across the cold floor.

In the kitchen, she started the coffeemaker, standing in front of the unit as she waited for enough to fill a cup. She went back to the bedroom, slipping on a pair of spandex running shorts, then an old pair of sweatpants. The phone was still off the hook from Jeffrey's call last night, and Sara replaced the receiver. The phone rang almost immediately.

Sara took a deep breath, then answered, "Hello?"

"Hey, baby," Eddie Linton said. "Where you been?"

"I accidentally knocked the phone off the hook," Sara lied.

Her father either did not catch the lie or was letting it pass. He said, "We've got breakfast cooking here. Wanna come?"

"No, thanks," Sara answered, her stomach protesting even as she did. "I'm about to go for a run."

"Maybe come by after?"

"Maybe," Sara answered, walking toward the desk in the hallway. She opened the top drawer and pulled out twelve postcards. Twelve years since the rape, one postcard for every year. There was always a Bible verse along with her address ty ped across the back.

"Baby?" Eddie said.

"Yeah, Pop," Sara answered, keying into what he was saying. She slid the cards back into the drawer, using her hip to shut it.

They made small talk about the storm, Eddie telling her that a tree limb had missed the Linton house by a couple of yards, and Sara offering to come by later and help clean up. As he talked, Sara flashed back to the time just after she was raped. She was in the hospital bed, the ventilator hissing in and out, the heart monitor assuring her that she had not died, though Sara remembered that she had not found that reminder in the least bit comforting.

She had been asleep, and when she woke, Eddie was there, holding her hand in both of his. She had never seen her father cry before, but he was then, small, pathetic sobs escaping from his lips. Cathy was behind him, her arms around his waist, her head resting on his back. Sara had felt out of place there and she had briefly wondered what had upset them until she remembered what had happened to her.

After a week in the hospital, Eddie had driven her back to Grant. Sara had kept her head on his shoulder the entire way, sitting in the front seat of his old truck, tucked between her mother and father, much as she had been before Tessa was born. Her mother sang an off-key hymn Sara had never heard before. Something about salvation. Something about redemption. Something about love.

"Baby?"

"Yeah, Daddy," Sara answered, wiping a tear from her eye. "I'll drop by later, okay?" She blew a kiss to the phone. "I love you."

He answered in kind, but she could hear the concern in his voice. Sara kept her hand on the receiver, willing him not to be upset. The hardest part about recovering from what Jack Allen Wright had done to her was knowing that her father knew every single detail of the rape. She had felt so exposed to him for such a long time that the nature of their relationship had changed. Gone was the Sara he played pickup games with. Gone were the jokes about Eddie wishing she had become a gynecologist, at least, so that he could say both his girls were in plumbing. He did not see her as his invulnerable Sara anymore. He saw her as someone he needed to protect. As a matter of fact, he saw her the same way Jeffrey did now.

Sara tugged the laces on her tennis shoes, tightening them too much and not caring. She had heard pity in Jeffrey's voice last night. Instantly, she had known that things had irrevocably changed. He would only see her as a victim from now on. Sara had fought too hard to overcome that feeling only to let herself give in to it now.

Slipping on a light jacket, Sara left the house. She jogged down the driveway to the street, taking a left away from her parents' house. Sara did not like to jog on the street; she had seen too many injured knees blown from the constant impact. When she worked out, she used the treadmills at the Grant YMCA or swam in the pool there. In the summertime, she took early morning swims in the lake to clear her mind and get her focus back for the day ahead. Today, she wanted to push herself to the limit, damn the consequences to her joints. Sara had always been a physical person, and sweating brought her center back.

About two miles from her house, she took a side trail off the main road so that she could run along the lake. The terrain was rough in spots, but the view was spectacular. The sun was finally winning its battle with the dark clouds overhead when she realized she was at Jeb McGuire's house. She had stopped to look at the sleek black boat moored at his dock before she made the connection as to where she was. Sara cupped her hand over her eyes, staring at the back of Jeb's house.

He lived in the old Tanner place, which had just recently come on the market. Lake people were hesitant to give up their land, but the Tanner children, who had moved away from Grant years ago, were more than happy to take the money and run when their father finally succumbed to emphysema. Russell Tanner had been a nice man, but he had his quirks, like most old people. Jeb had delivered Russell's medications to him personally, something that probably helped Jeb get into the house cheap after the old man died.

Sara walked up the steep lawn toward the house. Jeb had gutted the place a week after moving in, replacing the old crank windows with double-paned ones, having the asbestos shingles removed from the roof and sideboards. The house had been a dark gray for as long as Sara remembered, but Jeb had painted over this in a cheery yellow. The color was too bright for Sara, but it suited Jeb.

"Sara?" Jeb asked, coming out of the house. He had a tool belt on with a shingle hammer hanging from the strap on the side.

"Hey," she called, walking toward him. The closer she got to the house, the more aware she became of a dripping sound. "What's that noise?" she asked.

Jeb pointed to a gutter hanging off the roofline. "I'm just now getting to it," he explained, walking toward her. He rested his hand on the hammer. "I've been so busy at work, I haven't had time to breathe."

She nodded, understanding the dilemma. "Can I give you a hand?"

"That's okay," Jeb returned, picking up a six-foot ladder. He carried it over to the hanging gutter as he talked. "Hear that thumping? Damn thing's draining so slow, it hits the base of the downspout like a jack-hammer."

She heard the noise more clearly as she followed him toward the house. It was an annoying, constant thump, like a faucet dripping into a cast-iron sink. She asked, "What happened?"

"Old wood, I guess," he said, turning the ladder right side up. "This house is a money pit, I hate to say. I get the roof fixed and the gutters fall off. I seal the deck and the footings start to sink."

Sara looked under the deck, noting the standing water. "Is your basement flooded?"

"Thank God I don't have one or it'd be high tide down there," Jeb said, reaching into one of the leather pouches on his belt. He took out a gutter nail with one hand and fumbled for the hammer with the other.