Present Day…

After a brief meeting with Dad to go over a punch list of repairs, I heeded Lanie’s advice, loaded my camera into the car, and fled the premises. For distraction, I scouted the countryside in search of landmarks to photograph. Maybe I could sell some pictures for a spread on America’s heartland, the mysteries of the Midwest, or design a wall calendar. It had been many years since my last visit to Corbett, and I’d forgotten the details of the area. There was a beautiful round barn down the road. Its weathered red boards and metal roof sparked my creativity. I took a few test photos. The camera felt good in my hands. After a few hours, the tension ebbed from my neck and shoulders.

Photography had always been my refuge. The desire had started when Stan, desperate to occupy my juvenile delinquent mind, had given me his castoff 35mm Nikon. In the evenings after school, I’d helped him develop film at his camera shop. On the weekends, we’d traveled around the county, taking pictures for the local newspapers of the 4H Fair, champion livestock, and an occasional portrait for feature articles. Three years later, his referral had gotten my first job at The Indianapolis Star. His input and tutelage had provided the skills to become a photojournalist, and I’d be forever grateful. Time had torn us apart, but I’d never forgotten him. In one final act of kindness, he’d also given me his home. Knowing that he had remembered me after so many years brought a lump to my throat.

By the time I returned to the house, the workers had gone. I rattled around the empty rooms then suffered through a sleepless night. The creaks and groans of an unfamiliar home raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Dawn streaked across the sky by the time my eyelids closed. Minutes later, the roar of trucks and the slamming of car doors forced me from bed. Dad and his boys had arrived.

Through the window, I watched the men swarm the house, but it was Owen who held my fascination. Morning sunlight caught the blond streaks in his hair. From behind the curtain, I followed him as he unloaded lumber from the back of his truck. The muscles in his chest flexed beneath his tight T-shirt. He joked with a coworker, flashing his brief smile. The sight of it stirred butterflies in my belly. Was he happy in his new life? I wanted that for him, more than anything. A less-pleasant thought gave a bitter edge to my musings. Many years had passed. Maybe he had a wife and children waiting at home for him. I hoped he did. He deserved happiness.

No, wait. That wasn’t true. The selfish monster inside me wanted him to remain frozen in time as the boy who’d adored me. In my mind, he’d been in a time warp—locked up in a prison cell, his life put on pause—waiting for me. A bitter laugh burned my throat. He’d stopped waiting for me the moment the guards had closed his cell door. I shut the curtain. If I wanted to get through the day, I had to stop this endless parade down memory lane.

I threw on a pair of shorts and a tank top then trotted downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee. Sometime soon, I needed to buy a stove and refrigerator. Dad knocked on the back door. He smiled at me, yellow hardhat beneath his arm. I smiled back and waved him inside. “Good morning. Would you like some coffee?”

“Good morning to you. Coffee sounds great.”

While he watched, I withdrew a sleeve of disposable cups from the otherwise empty cabinet and poured a cup for him. “I hope you like it black. I haven’t been to the store yet, and I don’t have any cream or sugar.”

“Black is perfect.” He took a sip and hummed in approval. “Strong. Just the way I like it.”

“Me too. Working on assignment, I always had to get up at the butt crack of daylight. It gave me a healthy appreciation for caffeine.”

Dad chuckled. “Owen said you’re a big-time photographer. He showed me a few of your pictures from that magazine. You’ve done really well.”

Butterflies pinged against the walls of my belly. Dad scanned over his clipboard, launching into his plan for the day, but my mind clung to his previous statements. Owen knew about my photographs. I’d sent a copy of my first magazine feature to the prison, but it had been returned. Had he seen them by accident? Or had he read the magazine to stay in touch with me and my life? The idea planted a tiny seed of hope in my soul. Maybe he didn’t hate me after all.

“Owen’s going to replace the water heater this morning, if you approve the expense.” Dad’s gruff voice cut into my daydreams.

“Please. Just let me know how much.” I’d expected a few hiccups along the way since the house had sat empty for so long. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Owen’s long limbs and broad chest in the utility room and couldn’t hide the heat racing into my cheeks.

“I know you planned on replacing the HVAC and appliances later, but I figured you’d appreciate some hot water before then.”

“Definitely.” Despite the scalding August heat, I’d been unable to face the icy water and had taken a quick bath in the sink this morning.

Owen appeared at the kitchen door. At Dad’s invitation, he joined us, moving stiffly, like he was about to meet the firing squad. Yesterday, I’d been paralyzed with shock, unable to face him, but today, I couldn’t stop staring. He was taller and broader than I remembered. The top of his head almost brushed the door frame. And there was something hard in his gaze, like he’d seen unspeakable things. I’d seen the same look on a few of the soldiers I’d photographed while on assignment in the Middle East.

“Morning.” His raspy baritone, smooth yet abrasive, shimmered over me. The sight and sound of him filled up my senses. It was like I’d been starving for the last eighteen years and hadn’t known it until this minute. Now that I’d had a taste of him, I couldn’t get enough. I drank in each plane and angle of his face, memorizing them in case fate yanked him away from me again.

“Would you like some coffee?” It took all of my courage to form the question. His presence turned me into a simpering schoolgirl, all blushes and stammering.

“Sure.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his well-worn jeans and rolled his lips together, moistening them until they glistened. How many times had I kissed those lips? Soft kisses, playful kisses, passionate kisses. Kisses that had gone on for days.

I blinked, severing the connection between us, and cleared my throat. “Is black okay?”

“Yes.”

With trembling hands, I poured the aromatic liquid into the cup and nudged it toward him.

He nodded and wrapped long, tanned fingers around the white cup. “Thanks.”

Dad, noticing the tension in the air, narrowed his eyes, but his smile remained warm. He clapped Owen on the shoulder. “I don’t know what I’d do without this guy.” His weathered face glowed with affection. “Best worker I ever had.”

“I don’t know about that,” Owen said, glancing toward the door like he wanted to make a run for it.

“And modest too.” Dad winked at me. “I had hernia surgery a few months ago. Owen here stepped in and ran the crew for me until I was up and going again. Never missed a day of work in two years. He’s worth his weight in gold.”

“Yes. He is,” I said, finding my voice again. “Or at least he was when I knew him.”

“People change.” Owen’s voice held an edge, a note of warning. Was he talking about himself or me? He lifted his chin. Each breath filled and swelled his wide chest. The knife blade edge of his nose, once perfect and straight, was now crooked at the bridge, like it had been broken. The imperfection loaned character to the square lines of his face, roughness to his expression, and made my knees weak.

Even though it was at least eighty degrees in the house, a sudden chill drove my arms around my waist. I shivered and shifted from foot to foot. “Well, if you don’t need anything else…”

“I think we’re good here. I’ll check in with you at lunchtime. Thanks for the coffee, Stella.” Dad squeezed Owen’s shoulder, his gaze filled with sympathy. Did he know about us? About me and Owen? I dismissed the thought before it had fully formed. Of course not. No one knew. Owen had been silent for eighteen years, and his actions had made it clear that he intended to keep our secrets. I was being paranoid.

I retreated to the living room with cleaning supplies. For the next several hours, I wiped down the walls and washed the tall windows. The hardwood floor needed refinishing, but that could wait until later. After lunch, I planned to paint. This room would be my oasis while the rest of the house was renovated.

At noon, the buzz of locusts replaced the cacophony of hammers. From the bay window, I watched the workers break for lunch. Owen went to his truck and took a seat beneath the willow tree in the front yard. He opened a paperback book, its cover worn and tattered, and began reading. The rest of the men piled into the company van and drove away with Dad. The sight of him alone tugged at the steel bands around my heart. Why didn’t he go with the other men? In my experience, Owen had always been a pleasant guy, quiet but interesting. He’d been popular in high school, an excellent athlete. Had the misfortunes of his life stripped away his friendly personality?

Following a whim, I grabbed a plastic container of brownies from the kitchen and two bottles of water. Outside the house, my footsteps crunched on the dry grass. Before long, the days would grow shorter and the temperatures would drop. Even though it was August, the leaves on the tulip tree beside the garage had already begun to yellow. The realization made me a little sad. Somehow, while traveling the world, I’d missed another summer.

Owen glanced up as I crossed the weed-strewn yard. He jumped to his feet, back against the tree, feet spread wide, like he was bracing for an attack.

I stretched out a hand. “It’s okay. I come in peace.” His shoulders lowered a notch, but he didn’t move. I forced a smile. “I picked up some brownies at the bakery. I thought you might like one.” The Owen of my youth had loved all things chocolate. Surely that hadn’t changed.

“Yeah? Thanks.” He didn’t smile but took the proffered container and withdrew one of the brownies. After furrowing his brow, he resumed his place at the base of the tree. I sat on the grass beside him. He closed his eyes, humming in approval after each bite, washing it down with the water. When his long lashes fluttered open, our eyes met, giving me another vicarious thrill. The feeling added to my confusion. I didn’t want to be attracted to him, but how could I not? He’d been my first kiss, my first crush, my first date. I’d given him my virginity. I hadn’t stopped loving him by choice. He’d ended it. Not me.

“What are you reading?” I reached for the paperback and flipped it over to see the cover. “Ah, Les Misérables. I just got back from France a few weeks ago. Have you ever been?” He cocked an eyebrow, letting me know just how stupid my question was. I cleared my throat. “I never took you for a classics kind of guy.”

“The prison had a pretty good library, and I had a lot of spare time on my hands. This was my favorite.” He ran his tongue over his lower lip to capture a crumb. My gaze snapped to the fullness of his mouth. Catching my focus, his eyebrow lifted higher.

“It’s a little too dark for me.” To avoid the cool gray-green of his irises, I plucked at the grass near my side.

Once upon a time, secrets hadn’t existed between us. I wanted to break the uncomfortable silence with a million questions about the past eighteen years and what he’d been through, but I didn’t know how to begin. Today, with the burden of deception and untruths between us, we struggled to make polite conversation.

“Have you dated that guy for very long?” he asked, breaking the quiet. He shifted, lifting his knees and resting his forearms on top of them.

“A few months. He’s a good man.” Talking about Michael with the former love of my life made me uneasy, like I was being disloyal to them both. I bit my lower lip.

“How’s Lanie?”

“Fine. She has three kids now.”

“Really?” For the first time, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Good for her.”

Relieved to find a neutral topic, I blundered on. “You should see her. You wouldn’t believe the way she is. She’s a soccer mom with a van and a house full of clutter.”

“Tell her I said hi, would you?”

“I will.” The wind rattled through the branches overhead, bringing with it a bank of gray clouds and the promise of rain. His gaze roamed over my face, searching for answers I wasn’t ready to give. I picked at my fingernails, anything to avoid looking straight at him. The questions kept building inside me until I thought I would bust. Finally, I blurted, “I never thought I’d see you again.”

“That was the plan.” The chill of his reply stirred up the feelings of rejection I’d fought so hard to overcome. The thin façade of politeness between us evaporated. Darkness filled his eyes. “You changed your name. I didn’t know this was your house, or I would’ve taken steps to make sure our paths didn’t cross.” A sharp knife of anguish pierced my chest at his confession.

“I’m divorced, and I kept my ex-husband’s name. Stella Valentine sounds so much better than Estelle Strunk, don’t you think?” I forced a smile, trying to ease some of the tension in the air. “It was easier to reinvent myself with a new name.”

“I liked Estelle Strunk.” The reproach in his words wrenched my guts. I barely remembered that girl.

“If you liked her so much then why did you break up with her?” Maybe the question was inappropriate, but I’d been dying to know since the moment he’d dumped me. Estelle the girl might have been too timid to ask, but Stella the adult needed answers.

“You know why.” The anger in his tone echoed the distant rumble of thunder.

“No, Owen, I don’t.” I picked up a small rock and heaved it across the driveway. It skipped twice on the gravel, kicking up small puffs of dirt before landing on the opposite side. “You dumped me and didn’t even tell me why.”

“Does it really matter?”

“Maybe not to you, but it does to me.” Eighteen years of hurt swelled to a crescendo and burst from my lips. “I wrote to you for an entire year. I went to see you.” I’d saved money for months for the bus ride to the prison, running away from the children’s home, only to be refused visitation at Owen’s request. He doesn’t want to see you. The warden’s words still haunted my nightmares. Afterward, I’d cried on the bus ride home until I’d made myself sick.

The crunch of tires on gravel interrupted our conversation. Three white sedans stopped in front of us. The black-and-gold shields on their doors made the brownie curdle in my stomach. Owen stiffened. The doors opened, and uniformed policemen exited. A short guy, about my age, placed one hand on his holster and approached us while the others formed a wall behind him.

“Fuck.” Owen exhaled a heavy sigh and tossed his half-eaten brownie into the tall grass. “Here we go again.”

“Good afternoon,” the officer said. His gaze locked onto Owen.

“Good afternoon,” I replied.

“How’s it going, Roger?” Owen asked, his voice even. He unfolded his limbs and stretched to his full height, moving slowly.

“Can’t complain.” The man kept his hand on the gun, like he thought Owen might make a break for it.

“I’m Stella Valentine. I don’t believe we’ve met.” I scrambled to my feet and extended a hand.

“I’m Sheriff Coley.” For the first time, his focus turned to me. The way his attention slid over my tank top and bare legs made my stomach turn. My hand dropped to my side. “Is this your place, Ms. Valentine?”

“Yes. I just moved in. Owen’s working on the renovation crew.” I shifted my gaze from Owen to Coley and back again. An eerie sense of déjà vu crawled down my back. “What’s the problem?”

“You mind coming down to the station with me, Owen?”

“Yes. I mind. Do I have a choice?” Tension crackled through the space between the three of us.

“Not really.” The smirk on Coley’s face suggested this was more than business. It was personal.

“Can I ask why?” I dusted the brownie crumbs from my hands and flicked my gaze over the other officers. Their deliberate attempt at intimidation seemed too obvious to be real.

“There was a robbery at the convenience store this morning. Owen fits the description of the suspect.”

“You’re kidding, right?” No one looked at me. They were all concentrating on Owen. “I can assure you, he’s been on site since early morning.”

“This is none of your concern, Ms. Valentine. You’ll find it in your best interest to keep your nose where it belongs.” He jerked his head at Owen. The familiarity of his words brought a cold sweat to my forehead. Eighteen years ago, the homicide detective had told me the exact same thing. “Let’s go. We’ll sort it all out at the station.”

Even though he’d broken my heart, even though we were familiar strangers, I still felt something for him, a responsibility. I shifted from one foot to the other. Was fate playing some kind of cruel joke? Testing me? Coley smiled, the lines tightening around his mouth. I wrung my hands while weighing my options. I didn’t know Owen anymore. Time in a maximum-security facility could turn the saintliest man into a hardened criminal. Maybe he wasn’t the guy I remembered.

“Is he under arrest?” I hated myself for doubting him almost as much as I hated him for coming back into my life. My emotions were all over the place.

“Let’s just say he’s a person of interest.”

“It’s fine, Stella. We do this all the time, don’t we, Roger?” Although Owen’s voice was calm, a muscle in his jaw ticked. “Tell Dad where I’m at. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Owen walked calmly to the car. He spread his long legs and placed his hands on the hood. The cop slid his hands over Owen’s hard chest, turned his pockets inside out, and patted down his legs. I watched, horrified, as Owen was cuffed and placed in the back seat. The sight brought back vivid, painful memories. The car backed out of the driveway, weaving around potholes and into the street. I swallowed back the bitter taste of bile. History had repeated itself in front of my very eyes, and once again, I’d done nothing to stop it.