2. Tryin To Throw Your Arms Around the World
Tryin' To Throw Your Arms Around the World
Arden
“Life has a nasty habit of challenging my convictions.” —Arden McRae III
A week ago, I’d have claimed to be the last person who would ever crash a funeral. But Steve would want me here. I’d go so far as to say he’d have been desperate for it.
So here I sit, on the hunt for a young woman who appears to have skipped out on the fiasco entirely.
The man behind the pulpit is good. I’ll give him that. But I have a great deal of experience spotting liars. This guy makes a living selling people a story he doesn’t believe.
His eyes rake the crowd, expression warm and sympathetic as he describes Steve as a beloved son, brother, and friend.
Polford hated Steve. I can see it in his micro-grimace. Hear it in the change of cadence with certain words. Not a sentence leaves his mouth in reference to Steve’s unborn child or fiancèe. If she isn’t here, I’ll have to track down the address for her parents’ farm—
The pastor stiffens, losing track of his words, his attention focused on something at the back of the church. Polford’s eyes go flat as a shark’s.
Even before I turn my head to follow his gaze, I know who I’ll see.
Charlotte Miller.
Flanked by her parents and siblings, she stands a foot behind the last row. About six months pregnant, her posture rigid, she glares with unflinching intensity at Jeremy Polford.
From the corner, my Close Protection Officer, Reese, shoots me a sardonic look. Never forget to check your flank. My mistake was expecting Charlotte to be near the front where immediate next of kin would normally be found.
The interaction between Charlotte and the minister has drawn attention, but she doesn’t appear to notice.
Charlotte Miller and I aren’t alike. We’re barely from the same planet. But the way the crowd watches her, whispering behind their hands with unadulterated curiosity and judgment, is infuriatingly familiar. I know the combination of grief and protective fury in her eyes all too well.
Charlotte looks nothing like the girl I expected to find. The photo in Steve’s work locker was of a nineteen-year-old college student on a full-ride scholarship to Columbia. That girl wore jeans and a sweatshirt, her honey-blonde hair was piled on top of her head, and her smile was contagious.
Charlotte cradles her belly, and the cheap fabric of a clearly secondhand maternity dress drowns her in material, giving the disconcerting impression that she’s half soldier, half waif.
A muscle flexes in her cheek.
No . There isn’t a thing about her that’s pitiful.
She may, however, be in need of even more help than I originally assumed. The understanding pushes past my grief to something edgier. Hotter. It leaks into those hollow places, providing a sense of purpose in the face of a senseless, purposeless death.
So much death in the last two years that I’ve grown numb to stay sane.
I glance back at Charlotte. This time, I nearly catch her eye, but . . . She’s not looking at me after all. She drags in a ragged breath, then appears to force herself to glare at Polford once more.
That ’ s my girl, Charlotte.
Eventually, Polford wraps up the service and invites the crowd to join him in the basement fellowship hall for a luncheon. Charlotte, hand on her lower back, moves to the lobby of the church. Charlotte’s mother wraps her arm around her daughter, and I follow the Miller family to the church annex.
“She should have known better than to come here,” a feminine voice mutters under her breath.
I turn to face the thirty-something woman, my expression one of polite inquiry. Keep talking, lady. Explain why you ’ re all treating a grieving girl like a pariah.
The woman’s hair is dark, her skin pale, and she wears makeup so thick that it’s impossible to see any hint of her natural face.
When she notices me, she brushes her hair over her shoulder and subtly angles her body toward me with a practiced, twinkling smile. Before my eyes, she’s flipped a switch. “Hi, there. I’m Bianca Polford. You look so familiar to me. How do you know Steve and his family?”
The pastor ’ s wife.
“I was Steve’s employer.” And friend. “Are you well? Do you need assistance?”
She trills a small laugh. “Of course I’m fine. Why would you ask that?”
I drop my chin and indicate her left eye. “You have a broken blood vessel and some swelling.”
She waves her hand and holds on to her smile. “It’s truly so kind of you to be concerned. I smacked my head into a cabinet door. I’m a clumsy person,” she says confidingly. “It’s a bit of a joke around here. I could give myself a concussion in my sleep.”
“If you need help getting away from your . . . cabinets . . . there are resources—”
“Whatever you’re implying is wrong. My husband is a wonderful man. Ask anyone.”
“Nobody talks to you like that, Char. If you won’t tell them to kiss your ass, I will, ” a deep voice rumbles, then ends with a boom. Charlotte’s older brother— What was his name? Max.— Max glares at a small group of older women. “You’re a bunch of fucking hypocrites.”
The women turn their backs and scurry away, huddled together and honking like angry geese.
Bob Miller clamps a hand on his son’s shoulder and mutters in the bearded man’s ear. No doubt, something like “ Calm down” or “ This isn ’ t the time.”
As satisfying as I’m sure Max’s outburst felt, his father is right. His behavior will have done nothing but feed the flames.
For the first time, I hear Charlotte’s voice, a husky alto that squeezes something inside my chest. “ Enough . I need some air.”
She bolts across the lobby and toward the doors.
When her friend moves to follow, Charlotte’s mother takes her hand. “Give her a minute.”
What are they thinking? Charlotte wears no coat. The polyester of her dress is too thin for December in Pennsylvania, and the cracked ballet flats on her feet offer next to no protection from the elements.
She shoves her way outside through two sets of double doors, trading the metaphorical coldness inside the church for its more literal cousin.
I’ve taken two steps in her direction when Bianca’s fingers clutch my forearm. “I wouldn’t if I were you. That girl is trouble.”
Only years of experience in a courtroom allow me to maintain a neutral expression. I reach out a hand to shake. When she takes it, I give an imminently professional squeeze. “I don’t believe I introduced myself, Bianca. My name is Arden McRae III.”
Her eyes widen in recognition.
“On behalf of the late Steven Hunsic, I’ll be acting as legal counsel representing Charlotte Miller’s interests.”
She snatches her hand back as if I burned her, stares at me wide-eyed, then bolts for the stairs.
Reese opens the doors to the church, and I head outside in search of Charlotte. I manage to catch a glimpse of a blonde in a black dress turning the corner at the edge of the building.
I follow her as she picks her way over a light layer of snow.
“Stay here,” I say to Reese. Something tells me a looming bodyguard won’t encourage Charlotte to open up.
“That isn’t a good idea,” Reese protests, but he stops at the corner to give us the illusion of privacy.
The young woman comes to a stop at a metal bench, dusts it off, and lowers herself to sit. She shivers violently, and, without intending to, I find myself standing too close to her, attempting to block the wind with my body.
Startled eyes, a shocking arctic blue with a dark outer circle around the iris, peer up at me.
”Hello, Ms. Miller.” Taking a seat on the far end of the bench, I lean forward and rest my forearms on my knees in an attempt to look less imposing. I’m at least half a foot taller than she is and about twice as wide at the shoulders. The last thing I want to do is frighten her. “I can’t tell you how sorry I was to hear about the car accident.”
She looks away and swallows hard.
“My name is Arden McRae.”
Her brow furrows slightly. “You’re Steve’s boss. The prosecutor from New York.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think about . . . I should have contacted you about his real funeral at the theater. This one wasn’t . . .” She lapses into silence and shakes her head.
“I understand. It’s not a problem.”
My proximity offers some protection from the wind, but not enough. When her teeth chatter, I remove my overcoat, then, crouching, I drape it around her.
She recoils, and I rise, backing away. I shouldn’t have touched her at all. It was completely out of character for me.
I see this woman and know Steve was loved fiercely while he lived. The baby she carries reminds me that some small piece of him still exists in the world, but she and I aren’t friends. The small comfort I’ve derived from her presence is a one-way street. My behavior was beyond inappropriate.
She pulls my coat off her shoulders and passes it back to me. “I forgot my jacket in the church, but I do have one.”
She’s probably telling the truth. It doesn’t change the fact that she’s shivering right now.
My hand fists in the wool when I accept its return. “Ms. Miller, I came to Blackwater to help you.”
She snorts, then looks away. “Not interested.”
I lift my eyebrows, surprised by her belligerent response. “Why is that?”
“I’d offend you if I told you,” she says.
“Offensively truthful answers are my favorite.”
She takes a shuddering breath. “Your offer isn’t about me or what I need. It’s either about you feeling sad that Steve is dead and looking for a way to make yourself feel better about it, which is understandable, but not my problem to fix. Or”—she stretches out the last word—“you like people fawning over you for being ‘such a good person.’ If you want to make yourself feel better, put Steve’s name on a park bench somewhere. But leave me out of it. The last thing I need are a bunch of rumors flying around this town about some big-city, rich man ‘helping’ me.” She closes her eyes with a shiver. “I’m not capable of admiring your benevolence, Mr. McRae. I’m all out of gratitude. If you’re looking to have your ego stroked, you’ll have to find someone else.”
When was the last time someone sassed me? I’m not sure it’s ever happened. “Ms. Miller, I have an annoyingly large number of people begging for the opportunity to ‘stroke my ego.’ I’d prefer not to add you to the ranks.”
She doesn’t look my way. In fact, she doesn’t react to my words at all.
She wasn’t attempting to intrigue me or challenge me. She simply spoke the truth as she knew it.
No one ignores me. Not ever. Speechless and oddly impressed, I watch Charlotte for a full minute before retaking my seat and placing the overcoat on the bench between us. It’s sheer stupidity that both of us are freezing to make a point, but I refuse to put the thing back on while Charlotte shivers beside me. I can be as stubborn as she is, and, no doubt, a hell of a lot sneakier.
I have priorities, and taking care of Steve’s fiancé and his child is one of them. Steve was one of mine. Charlotte doesn’t understand what that means, but he did. I don’t leave my people hanging out to dry. Not even in death. Loyalty goes both ways.
Decision made, I shift to face her, moving slightly closer in the process. Startling, Charlotte leans away from me, so tense she looks as though her bones could snap. Whether her reaction is because it’s me, specifically, or men, in general, I can’t be sure, but I adjust my position to give her more space.
If she won’t accept “charity,” then it’s time to get creative. “We got off on the wrong foot, Ms. Miller. That was my fault for being unclear. I’m here because Steve had a life insurance plan through his employment, with you listed as his beneficiary.”
Charlotte frowns. “Steve only worked part-time.”
“It was enough.”
She shakes her head. “I thought you knew. I’m not his wife. The car insurance paid his parents.”
I reach for her hand and press my business card into it. “That doesn’t matter. It was important to Steve that he take care of you and his child.” Since he can ’ t, I will.
She stares at the card, swallows hard, and presses a hand to her belly. “Do you have children, Mr. McRae?”
“Two boys. Henry is four and Gabriel is two.”
“Are they home with their mother?”
The question is a sucker punch. I hadn’t expected such a low blow from the woman Steve spoke of with so much admiration. I’d been fooled by her innocent face, but cruelty hides in all sorts of places, and pain is one of them.
I don’t answer her question. Instead, I watch her with hard eyes and wait for her to squirm when I don’t play her game. Except, as the seconds tick past, and her brow slowly furrows in confusion, it becomes obvious she doesn ’ t know who I am. As impossible as it seems, Charlotte hasn’t heard the tragic, and almost true, story of my marriage to Ariana McRae.
“My sons’ mother died when my youngest was a newborn.” I attempt to keep my voice gentle, but the words come out sounding like someone took sandpaper to my vocal cords.
Her eyes turn dull once more. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
I clear the last remnants of emotion from my throat. “Thank you.”
“There’s no such thing as a happy ending, is there? If you’re happy, then it’s not the end,” she says.
Admitting I agree with her would be counterproductive. “Some people would argue the opposite.”
She gnaws on the corner of her lip and watches me with wary eyes. “Are you sure the insurance shouldn’t pay Steve’s parents?”
“They aren’t entitled to a dime of that money. It’s yours.”
She glances down at the card. Apparently realizing she has no pockets, she tucks it into her neckline, I presume, into her bra. It’s not an action women from my world would ever take.
She peers back up at me, her pale blue gaze steady on mine.
I break eye contact and offer a hand to assist her to her feet.
Charlotte waves me away and struggles to a standing position on her own. “I’ll call you about the insurance policy on Monday.”
She takes a few steps toward the parking lot but halts with her back to me when I call her name. “Yes?”
“Anything you want to tell me about these people, I’ll believe you.”
She turns slowly. “Why would you trust a stranger when people I knew my entire life turned on me?”
“It’s a feeling.”
“The law doesn’t care about feelings,” she says.
“I’m not ‘the law,’ Ms. Miller. I’m a man.”
The expression on Charlotte’s face says she doesn’t believe me. “It was years and years ago. There wasn’t enough evidence to even get an arrest warrant.”
“If you need help, for any reason, call me.”
She assesses me with narrow-eyed suspicion. Finally, she dips her head, a queen acknowledging her courtier. “I won’t need you, Mr. McRae.”