The Return of Cassandra Todd Page 2

  “Mine didn’t last a year.” He grabbed a wrench from his toolbox. “But don’t worry about the tap. It’s an easy fix.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and saw her expression soften. That was important. Repeat business was good for . . . business.

  By now the woman was standing over him, watching as he removed the tap, replaced the worn rubber washer with a new one, and put the tap back together. Turner reopened the water supply and motioned toward the sink. “Try it now, ma’am.”

  The woman turned the tap on and off several times and nodded in satisfaction. “It doesn’t drip anymore.”

  “You’ll sleep much better tonight.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Anything else I can do while I’m here?”

  “No, that’s everything. Thank you, young man. You’re very good at what you do.”

  “Just don’t tell my boss. He might insist on giving me a raise.”

  The woman chuckled. “I’ll be sure and mention you when we check out.”

  Turner picked up his toolbox. “Thank you, ma’am. You have yourself a nice day now.” He headed for the door. His job here was done.

  As he stepped outside, his smile faded. Doing even simple tasks around the motel required him to be “on” whenever a guest was nearby. And that took a great deal of energy. But that’s not why he felt out of sorts this morning. No, it was the photograph. It stood as a painful reminder of where he had been and what he had lost. Now his life consisted of fixing taps, unclogging toilets, and repairing broken air conditioner units. He was cooped up in a small motel suite and attended crowded classrooms at college. But there was a time he had been surrounded by nature’s grand architecture, when a simple glance in any direction inspired awe. A time when he lived with purpose. And made a real difference. Unlike now.

  By two thirty Turner had the chores on Harvey’s list completed. This included securing the handrail in the bathroom of Room 23, replacing several tiles on the backsplash in the kitchenette of Room 4, and fixing the coin-operated washing machine that had an appetite for quarters.

  When he returned to his room, Turner washed up and changed into a clean pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt. He gulped down a sandwich and guzzled a glass of milk, and then headed for his late afternoon classes.

  The September sky was clear and bright as the sun tilted westward. Because Lakewood has an elevation of 5,500 feet, the air was thin and shimmered like wrinkled curtains over the sunbaked pavement. The storefront windows became retina-searing mirrors.

  He kept to the shady part of the sidewalk and made his way passed the Wells Fargo Bank while listening to music on his iPod nano, his backpack slung over one arm. A slender band of shade lined the south side of the street, and the foot traffic negotiated the sidewalk as if it was a narrow ledge.

  A taxi pulled up in front of the bank, and a woman climbed out, followed by a little boy. The woman wore sunglasses, but Turner recognized her instantly, although seven years had elapsed. It was Cassandra Todd. He had gone through high school with her and always thought she was the cutest cheerleader on the squad.

  Turner ducked around the corner of the bank. Like a detective in a dime novel, he peered around the edge of the building and watched as she waited while the taxi driver retrieved her luggage from the trunk, which turned out to be a single suitcase. In appearance she hadn’t changed a great deal and had lost none of her beauty. Straight, blonde hair touched her shoulders, and she still had her petite cheerleader figure.

  She paid the fare and fired glances in all directions. Then, taking the boy by the hand, she quickly led him toward the front door of the bank and disappeared inside.

  Turner let out his pent-up breath slowly. Memories resurfaced, sharklike, and razor-sharp teeth tore at the old wounds.

  He was suddenly back in the high school cafeteria. The student council was sponsoring an early morning pancake breakfast, and Turner had just loaded his plate with a stack of pancakes dripping in syrup. Brad Duncan, All-American and captain of the football team, was sitting at a table as Turner walked by. Brad stuck out his foot, and Turner stumbled forward, doing a face-plant into his food.

  As he frantically wiped the pancakes and syrup from his eyes, Turner saw faces contorted in riotous amusement. Brad was laughing his head off, along with the rest of the football team. People like them were on this earth to preserve the natural pecking order of things. They were at the top, Turner at the bottom. If this were a food chain, he was in serious trouble.

  “Smooth move, Pancake,” Brad said, apparently determined to twist the knife after plunging it into Turner’s self-esteem.

  “Pancake?” repeated one of the other football players. “As in pancake turner?”

  That got another rousing round of laughter. How clever of him to make a play on words with Turner’s name.

  Pancake Turner was not how he wanted to be known, so Turner quickly shrugged off the incident as if to say, “Clumsy me,” and left to clean himself up. However, Brad was not about to let it go, and so the nickname stuck . . . like syrup.

  But worse than the embarrassing face-plant, worse than the nickname, was Cassandra Todd, blonde cheerleader and object of a long-time secret crush, observing the whole thing—her face the picture of pity. And every time he saw her after that, whenever she looked at him, her expression said just one thing: pity for Pancake Turner, loser of Lakewood High.

  Turner was angry about the whole thing, but what could he have done? Brad was used to making mincemeat out of others, particularly on the gridiron, and being cheered for doing it. Turner couldn’t stand up to him, or he’d just be giving the spectators in the cafeteria more to cheer about at his expense.

  As for Cassandra, how could Turner deflect pity? He couldn’t simply ask her to stop pitying him. Respect had to be earned. And in high school that was the most difficult achievement of all.

  Turner pulled himself back to the present and shifted his backpack, fighting to suppress the onslaught of resurrected memories. He thought he had gotten over that incident, but seeing Cassandra Todd again proved him wrong.

  He glanced once more at the bank and then continued on his way to classes, no longer aware of the music on his iPod nano. Time was supposed to heal all wounds. But how could it when memories kept picking the scabs?

  CHAPTER 2

  CASSANDRA WEARILY LED Justin into Mel’s Diner, a small brick-fronted building two blocks from the Wells Fargo Bank. The diner had once been a shoe store but had been renovated to give it a retro look from the fifties. Padded booths lined the windows, and a counter with stools extended in front of the kitchen.

  Two men, seniors by their appearance, occupied a booth near the front door. A young couple sat at the counter, sharing a milkshake and a hot dog, oblivious to the world around them. A jukebox in the corner softly played hits of the fifties in the background, adding to the atmosphere.

  Cassandra ushered Justin to a booth near the back of the diner. She placed the suitcase on the seat and slumped down beside it in frustration. The business at the bank was going to take longer than she had expected. At least two more business days before everything could be processed. That meant she had to lay over longer than she wanted. She felt vulnerable being back in Lakewood because it was the logical place for her husband to look for her.

  “I’m tired,” Justin said, his eyes drooping. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and leaned against the back of the booth.

  “I know,” she replied, picking up a menu. “I’m tired too. But we need to eat first, okay?”

  It had been a twelve-hour bus ride from Las Vegas to down-town Denver, and a thirty-minute taxi ride to Lakewood. Then it had taken another forty minutes to start the proceedings at the bank. All she wanted to do now was find a motel room and get settled in. Only she couldn’t. Justin needed something more than the snacks she had brought for him to eat on the bus. A full stomach would help him feel more comfortable.

  The waitress—an overweight woman in her forties—a
pproached, her order pad poised and ready. “Afternoon,” she said cheerfully. “What can I get you?”

  Cassandra lowered her voice. “Do you accept credit cards here?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we sure do.”

  Breathing easier, Cassandra referred to the menu. “In that case, I’ll have a cheeseburger for my son.”

  “And fries,” Justin added.

  “And fries,” the waitress said, smiling as she wrote down the order.

  “With a cup of coffee and a glass of milk,” Cassandra said.

  “And I’ll have a spinach salad, with vinaigrette dressing.”

  The waitress finished writing and said, “I’ll be right back with your coffee and milk.”

  As she waited, Cassandra let her mind drift to the subject she had managed to avoid during the bus ride. Her husband. She tried to envision his reaction when he woke up and discovered that she and Justin were gone. He would have wandered from room to room, calling to her, growing angrier by the second. Next he would have looked on the whiteboard in the kitchen for a message as to her whereabouts. When he found nothing, he would have become angrier still. But his anger would have reached eruptive proportions when he eventually discovered that the large envelope was missing from the wall safe. He would have flown into a rage, and his fists would have broken things as he shouted threats to the vacant room, promising what he would do to her when she returned home. She would experience his unbridled wrath!

  But she wasn’t returning home. Not tomorrow, not ever. Seven hundred fifty miles now separated them, and she wanted to increase that distance as soon as possible. Once she completed her business at the bank, she and Justin would use the money to go somewhere her husband would never find them.

  Her resolve was accompanied by a gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. Despite leaving him, despite the number of miles that currently separated them, she felt a degree of guilt for abandoning him. She had made a wedding vow to love and to cherish him, and that was important. But wasn’t it even more important for Justin to have a good father?

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she grabbed a napkin from the dispenser, careful not to attract Justin’s attention. Her son was amusing himself with a sugar packet, pouring a small amount on the table and licking it up with his wet finger.

  When the waitress arrived with the cup of coffee and the glass of milk, she paused and looked at Cassandra. “Is everything all right?” she asked, genuine concern evident in her expression.

  Cassandra forced a smile. “Yes, thank you. We’ve just had a long bus ride and are pretty tired.”

  “Where did you come in from?”

  Cassandra hesitated.

  “Never mind,” the waitress said before Cassandra could reply. “Mel always says I’m too nosy for my own good.” A bell rang, signaling an order up. The waitress said, “I’ll be right back.”

  The waitress’s cheerfulness was refreshing, and it reminded Cassandra of better times. She remembered when she and her husband had first married and moved to Las Vegas. Their future was as bright as the lights on The Strip. Already trained in construction by his father, her husband had jumped headlong into the housing boom. Before long he was contracting million-dollar homes. They were able to build a house in a respectable neighborhood, purchase two cars, and acquire all the toys that hard-working Americans were supposed to have.

  Cassandra took classes at the local art school in interior design. On the surface at least, life was fulfilling her girlhood fantasies. But that was before things began to change. The crash of 2008. The drying up of credit. And the drought in construction projects. Not to mention her getting pregnant and the terrible morning sickness that followed.

  The waitress returned with their order, smiling as she placed the hamburger and fries in front of Justin, who had licked up the pile of sugar. “Here you are,” she said. Then she placed the salad in front of Cassandra and turned to leave. Hesitating, she said, “It’s none of my business, but are you sure everything’s all right?”

  A tear trailed down Cassandra’s cheek before she could restrain it. “Not really.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not unless you know how to speed up bank transactions.”

  The waitress shook her head. “I’m no good to you there. But I know how to make a mean banana split. On the house.”

  “We’ll take a rain check, if you don’t mind. We need to be on our way soon. But thanks for your kindness.”

  “My pleasure.” She patted Cassandra on the shoulder and whispered, “It’s tough, isn’t it?”

  Cassandra looked at her in surprise.

  “I’ve been there,” the waitress added. “Leaving him was the best thing I ever did.”

  Instinctively raising a hand to her cheek, Cassandra wondered if her makeup was beginning to fade, revealing the bruise.

  The waitress smiled at Justin, who was smacking his way through the hamburger and fries. “You’ll be fine, dear,” she said, squeezing Cassandra’s shoulder. “Good luck.” Then she left to wait on the two men in the booth near the door who were waving to get her attention.

  Toying with her salad, Cassandra considered what had just happened. She could still feel the warmth of the waitress’s touch on her shoulder and hear the words of encouragement. The gesture had been small, but it meant a great deal. A sense of gratitude tingled through her, and tears threatened to fall once more. The experience in the diner was a witness that people were being positioned along the way, like signposts, to guide and comfort her on her journey. Her prayer had been heard.

  CHAPTER 3

  TURNER SAT RESTLESSLY in his Psychology 201 class. The professor was one of his favorites, but Turner found it difficult to concentrate on the lecture. During his walk to class he had been unable to reach the escape velocity necessary to leave his high school memories behind. As a result he hardly heard a word the instructor spoke. Hopefully the contents of this day’s lecture would not find their way onto the midterms.

  The subject was on dream determinants. The professor projected some notes on the screen, and Turner opened his backpack and removed his laptop. He powered it on and absent-mindedly copied down the notes.

  The professor explained that determinants are factors in the environment that play a part in the causation of a dream and lend it a particular flavor. Turner smiled grimly as he considered the dream determinant he’d just experienced on the way to class. Surely Cassandra Todd and the memories of high school she evoked would invade his dreams for weeks to come.

  Following class, he went to the library to work on a reading assignment for one of his outdoor education courses. But he had a hard time concentrating and kept rereading the same paragraph about the essentials of running an effective outdoor education camp. Finally he slammed the book in frustration, causing several students to look at him in disapproval. Shrugging apologetically, he grabbed his backpack and headed for home.

  A note from Harvey was waiting for him, pinned to the door. Turner sighed and snatched up the note and read:

  Tenant in Room 21 wants safety chain fixed. Do right away. Not tomorrow. Right away!

  Turner glanced at his watch, not because he needed to know the time, but to emphasize a point. It was late, and there were the remains of a half-eaten pizza waiting in the refrigerator. But it was a futile gesture. To Harvey everything needed to be done right away, as far as motel guests were concerned. Even if it was past nine o’clock and would undoubtedly be disruptive, Harvey probably had an eye pressed against the peephole in his room, checking to make sure the job got done ASAP.

  Free rent came with a price.

  Turner went to the maintenance room to get his toolbox and headed for Room 21, planning his apology for the late disturbance.

  Sorry, sir, but someone must have forgotten to undo the chain before trying to yank the door open. Happens all the time. Don’t worry, though, we’ve got plenty of new parts.

  In retail the customer is always right. In the motel bu
siness it was the same. Turner would apologize for not having anticipated the damage to the safety chain.

  He lugged the toolbox up to the second floor, reminding himself to throw out a few tools sometime. The only problem was, whatever ones he took out to lighten the load were the exact ones he’d need for the next job.

  Grunting as the toolbox banged against the back of his leg, he walked down the hallway and paused in front of door 21, waiting for the throbbing to subside. No sense having the occupant open the door to a face twisted in pain. It might send the wrong message.

  He knocked on the door and waited. Occupants came in various shapes and sizes, as well as temperaments and demeanor, and he never knew what to expect. Someone could as easily answer the door toting a gun as they could with a drink in one hand and an open invitation in the other.

  “Who is it?” came a voice from inside.

  “Maintenance,” he replied.

  There was a brief pause and the doorknob turned. A moment later, the door opened . . . and so did Turner’s mouth.

  He stood blinking at Cassandra Todd.

  He had recognized her when she emerged from the taxi. But now at close range he realized she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Blonde hair framed high cheekbones, and her large, brown eyes were perfect in shape. Her nose was thin and straight, and her lips were full. She had maintained her petite figure, and Turner sensed that she could still do the splits while waving her pompoms vigorously. But in spite of her beauty something lurked beneath the surface—a tension in her countenance that competed for coveted facial space.

  Did she recognize him? Was that the reason for her tension? No, he could see by the neutral expression in her eyes that she didn’t recognize him. And the reason was obvious. He’d waited until after graduating from high school to grow six inches and put on forty pounds. Ducking around the corner of Sharpe’s Pharmacy so she wouldn’t see him had been unnecessary.

  “I’m . . . uh, maintenance,” he said numbly.