The Truth About Tara (9 page)

“I don’t understand,” Tara said.

“Didn’t you ever wonder why we live so close to the water when I hate it so?” her mother asked.

“On occasion,” Tara admitted. Except for her yearly pilgrimage on the anniversary of the deaths, her mother hadn’t spent any time at the beach in years. She’d gone with Tara when she was a child, but only to the parts of the bay where the water was calmest. She’d stayed out of the water herself and had strict rules about how far Tara was allowed to venture into the water. She even stayed out of the pool, although she’d made sure Tara could swim.

“I was still wallowing in grief a year later. My therapist said what I needed was a fresh start away from Charlotte,” her mother said. “A friend of mine invited us to come live with her in Wawpaney.”

“I don’t remember anyone like that,” Tara said.

“I’m not surprised. You were just a little thing when the bank where she worked transferred her—that was about six months after we got here,” her mother said. “I had some insurance money from your father. I used it to buy the house from her.”

“Did you like it here right away?” Tara asked.

“I didn’t like it one bit,” her mother said. “But you did. It’s a wholesome place to raise a child. And my therapist said I should face my fears if I was ever gonna be happy again.”

“You’ve faced enough for today.” Tara stood, extended a hand to her mother and pulled her to her feet. She kept hold of her mother’s hand, leading the shorter woman away from the water, feeling more like the parent than the child. She thought of her mother coming to the beach year after year on the anniversary of the deaths, burdened by unnecessary guilt. “She doesn’t sound like she was a very good therapist.”

“Oh, but she was.” Her mother walked with her shoulders stooped and head down. “She gave great advice. I just could never bring myself to take it.”

Tara disliked the helpless feeling that swept over her. In an odd way, she understood why her mother relived the day over and over. Before her mother saw the tragedy unfold in her mind’s eye, she probably experienced a brief instant when she felt as though she could prevent it from happening. That was ridiculous, of course.

Even if her mother could turn the clock back almost thirty years, she couldn’t stop fate from exacting its toll. Neither could Tara, who would have been only two years old at the time.

A chill ran through her despite the rapidly rising temperature. Her mother had said on many occasions that she and her husband had saved up in order to take a family vacation. Yet when she revealed the details of the story, she’d made mention of only three family members.

“Where was I?” Tara asked.

“Pardon me?” Her mother reacted as though the question made no sense.

“When it happened,” Tara said. “Where was I?”

A look akin to panic entered her mother’s watery eyes. She stammered something unintelligible, then seemed to collect herself. “Why, you were back at the hotel.”

Tara’s stomach muscles tightened. “Alone? You left a two-year-old alone in a hotel?”

“Of course not.” The sun shone down on her mother’s pale face, illuminating lines Tara didn’t remember noticing. Her mother appeared more ravaged than she had when she was reliving the drownings. “You were...with somebody.”

“Who?” Tara asked.

Such a simple question, but it seemed to stump her mother. A long while passed as her mother stared back at her. Tara could almost see her rejecting the answers that occurred to her.

“A friend of mine,” her mother finally answered, the words coming out in a rush. Her mother nodded, as though trying to convince herself the answer made sense. “We were on vacation with another couple who had a son around your age. They took you both to the pool.”

Tara’s mother was breathing too hard. The sun was cruel, showing the tracks of her recent tears on her cheeks. Her brow pinched together, making her expression looked pained.

She was waiting to see if Tara believed her lie. Because it was a lie. Of that, Tara was almost positive.

She was also closer to believing she was that little girl who’d been taken from the Kentucky shopping mall.

She should ask her mother and be done with it. The wind kicked up, blowing sand that stung Tara’s ankles. Her mother positioned her body between the blowing sand and Tara. She squeezed Tara’s hand, love mixing with the pain.

The question died on Tara’s lips. She wouldn’t ask her mother about Hayley Cooper, not today on the darkest of anniversaries.

Not ever.

She wouldn’t allow Jack DiMarco to question her mother, either, even if he were only the brother of a private eye and not a P.I. himself.

“It was lucky I wasn’t on the beach that day.” Tara watched the relief pour over her mother’s face. “That memory would have stuck with me forever.”

Like the recurring nightmare Tara had of the woman who shook her and yelled at her to stop crying.

If Carrie Greer had kidnapped Tara, she very well could have done her a favor. It seemed more and more likely the nightmare woman, and not the one she loved with all her heart, was her biological mother.

* * *

T
HE
FITNESS
CLUB
WAS
quiet when Jack arrived late that morning, a departure from Sunday night when music from Tara’s spinning class had spilled into the lobby.

The only sound came from a large-screen television, where an ESPN broadcaster was counting down yesterday’s top plays. The seating area in front of the TV was empty, and only a few men worked out in the nearby weight room.

The guy working the front desk had directed Jack to an office and advised him to wait there. Jack leaned with his back against the wall across from the TV instead. The personal trainer with whom he’d made the appointment would hardly have trouble finding him in a club this small.

On TV, a teammate of Jack’s from when he was a twenty-two-year-old minor league rookie smacked a ball that cleared the center-field wall. That year, the talk had been that Jack and the home run hitter were on the fast track to the major leagues. This was the three hundredth homer of the other player’s illustrious career. Jack was reminded again that he’d pitched in only three major league games.

“Are you Jack DiMarco?” The man asking the question strode toward him with a spring in his step. He was well into his sixties with gray islands of hair on either side of his balding head and an impressively fit body.

Jack straightened from the wall and held out a hand. “That’s me.”

The man grabbed his hand in a firm grip, pumping it vigorously. “Art Goodnight, personal trainer and fitness consultant. And yeah, you heard right. My last name really
is Goodnight. You can call me Art.”

“I’m just Jack,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah. The baseball pitcher.” He talked too fast. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though it was hard for him to keep still. Judging by his physique, maybe it was. He didn’t seem to have an inch of flab on him. His short-sleeved shirt hugged his muscular chest and showed off the definition in his biceps. He was wearing shorts, revealing legs that were as impressive as the rest of him. “What can I do you for?”

“I need some help rehabbing the torn labrum in my pitching shoulder,” Jack said.

“Did you have surgery?”

“Two surgeries,” Jack said. “Both on the same shoulder, both for my rotator cuff. I would have opted for surgery this time, too, but two doctors advised me rehab is a better option.”

“How long ago was this?”

“I broke my collarbone about a year ago in a collision at first base,” he said. “The collarbone healed but the soreness wouldn’t go away. Nobody realized there was a problem with my labrum until this year at spring training.”

“Have you seen a physical therapist?”

“A couple of them.” Jack didn’t add that neither had let him work out as hard as he wanted to. “I thought it was time to try something else.”

“So that shoulder’s been through hell.” Art’s thick gray eyebrows drew together. “I’m not sure I understand. The guy who set up the appointment said your goal is to pitch in the majors again.”

“It is,” Jack said.

Art whistled. “What do you think I am, son? A miracle worker?”

Jack inhaled. The club had a vaguely metallic smell combined with air freshener. “I thought you were good at what you did.”

“I am good,” Art said. “But you’re asking for the moon. I’d give the odds at, oh, one in a thousand. And maybe that’s too high.”

“I’ll take ’em,” Jack said. “If I can’t get my fastball back to where it was, I’ll work on my other pitches. So can we start?”

“Not so fast. I’ve gotta ask you some questions and come up with a fitness plan. That’s gonna take a while.” Art glanced at the wall clock. “How much time you got?”

“An hour,” Jack said. “I’m helping out at a camp and need to get there as soon as I can.”

“Follow me.” Art took off through the weight room past the treadmills and stationary bikes to the back of the health club. His destination was a small room barely big enough for a desk and two chairs. Jack started to sit down.

“We’re not staying.” Art grabbed a pen and a lined tablet from the desk. “This office makes me claustrophobic. I think better out there.”

He meant the weight room, where he sat down at one of the bench-press machines, perching on the end of the long leather bench. He indicated that Jack should take the machine next to him.

“What kind of camp?” Art asked.

Enough time had passed since Jack had mentioned the camp that he needed to redirect his brain. “A camp for kids with developmental disabilities.”

Art pointed at him. “Hey, is that the same camp Tara’s working at?”

That was right. Tara worked here. Of course she’d know Art Goodnight.

“It is,” Jack said. “Her foster brother Danny’s one of the campers.”

“I thought the boy’s name was Kyle.” Art scratched his head. “But maybe Kyle’s gone. As soon as one kid moves out, Carrie gets another.”

“Tara’s mother is working the camp, too,” Jack said.

“Aw, hell.” Art thumped the tablet against the back of his hand. “If I’d known that, I would have volunteered. I’ve been trying to get that woman to go out with me for about ten years now.”

“Wow,” Jack said. “You must have it bad for her.”

“I have it bad for a lot of women,” Art said with a laugh. “A long time ago, I figured out my best trait was persistence. It works most of the time, but not on Carrie.”

“I like that you’re stubborn,” Jack said. “That’s exactly the kind of trainer I need.”

“Like I said before, you need a miracle. You know about the anatomy of the shoulder, right?”

Jack nodded. After all his problems, he could probably teach a section about the shoulder in an anatomy class. The labrum was a ring of cartilage surrounding the shoulder socket that helped hold the ball of the humerus in place.

“You having any pain?” Art asked.

“A little,” Jack said. “Some in front of the shoulder and some deep inside the joint.”

Art bared his teeth and sucked in a breath. “Not great.”

Jack was used to reactions like those by now. “The way I understand it, a concentrated workout program will strengthen the muscles outside the joint that help rotate the shoulder.”

“Possibly,” Art said. “It’s more likely you’ll work like a dog and still not get the desired result. PT can do wonders for the average person. It can’t always make a top athlete as good as new.”

Jack felt a scowl coming on. “I’m starting to question how good you are at this.”

“Ask Tara,” he said. “She can tell you.”

Jack sat up straighter. “Tara? Why would I ask her?”

Art tapped his hand rapidly on his thigh. The man had serious trouble keeping still. “Didn’t she recommend me?”

“No. I found you on my own,” Jack said.

Art pursed his lips, clueing Jack in that he’d said the wrong thing if he expected the man to share additional information about Tara.

“Tara and I are friends, though,” Jack said. “I just haven’t gotten around to telling her about my injury. It’s kind of tough to talk about.”

Art’s broad shoulders relaxed, and Jack tried not to feel guilty about his white lie. His sister Maria misled people all the time to get information. Of course, she was a P.I.

“She was an athlete, too. She’d understand.” Art paused. “Or maybe she wouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked.

“Nothing I should have said aloud.” Art ran a hand over his face. “It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone as talented as that girl throw it all away like that.”

“Talented at what?”

“You name it, she could do it,” Art said. “She was one of the best female athletes to ever come out of Northampton High, but volleyball was her best sport. A couple major colleges with top programs even offered her scholarships.”

“She didn’t accept?” he asked, hardly able to wrap his mind around what he knew the answer would be.

“She said they were too far from home,” Art said. “Ended up going to two years of community college, then two years at a small school a few hours from here. Didn’t even play organized sports.”

“Why was that?” Jack asked.

“I’ve got my opinions, but it’s best I keep them to myself,” Art said. “You should ask her.”

Jack would love to do exactly that. If, that is, he could figure out how to broach the subject without Tara figuring out he’d been questioning Art Goodnight about her.

Jack nodded, because Art seemed to expect it of him.

“Enough about Tara.” Art’s pen hovered over the tablet. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Okay,” Jack said, shifting to the all-important task at hand. “Like I said, failure isn’t an option. It’s not a question of if I’ll pitch again. It’s a question of when.”

He firmly believed that, no matter how many experts cast doubt on his chances of a comeback. He’d defied the odds by even getting to the majors. He’d do it again.

CHAPTER SIX

C
ARRIE
SAT
ON
A
PARK
BENCH
across the street from the community center, watching the campers and other volunteer counselors gather the rocks they planned to paint later that afternoon, her mind hundreds of miles and almost thirty years away.

“Carrie? Did you hear what I said?”

She looked up to find Gustavo Miller gazing steadily at her with kind eyes. The kindness was nearly her undoing. She blinked to keep the tears at bay. She wasn’t as successful at banishing the grief. All day the weight of the past had made it seem to Carrie that she was sinking. She’d gone through the motions at camp, barely any help with the children at all.

“Sorry,” she said. “I missed it.”

“I asked if you’d mind talking to Susie.” He gave a helpless shrug. “She’s down about something, but she won’t tell me what. I thought somebody else might have better luck getting her to open up.”

Susie was sitting by herself on a swing at the playground but not moving. Her head was down and she seemed to be staring at her feet.

“Certainly,” Carrie said, rising from the bench. “I’ll see what I can do.”

She mentally kicked herself for not noticing something was wrong with the girl. Tara had left early after leading the children in a rousing game of freeze tag, checking with Carrie first to see if it was okay.

Saying no wouldn’t have been fair to Tara. Her daughter cobbled together a series of jobs in the summer and Mary Dee Larson’s father needed her to help out at his ice cream and fudge store.

As she trudged across the playground to the swings, however, Carrie wished Tara were with her.

A sob caught in her throat.

She wanted Sunny with her, too. And Scott. He’d always been so calm and levelheaded. He’d be able to advise her what to do about Tara’s sudden interest in the past.

Carrie crossed to the empty swing beside Susie and sat down. The little girl didn’t raise her head. Now that Carrie was near, she could tell that Susie’s shoulders were shaking.

“Susie, honey, are you crying?” Carrie reached across the chasm between the swings and put a hand on the girl’s heaving back. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I’m sad,” Susie said through her tears.

Carrie knew about being sad. The emotion didn’t sneak up on you. It festered until the tears spilled over because it was even more painful to suppress them.

Susie must have been down the entire day, yet Carrie had been with her since nine that morning and hadn’t picked up on it.

“I’m sorry you’re sad.” Carrie rubbed the girl’s solid back. “You just cry it out and you’ll feel better.”

Susie sniffed loudly and cried a bit harder. Carrie looked up to see Gustavo regarding them worriedly from where he’d gathered the rest of the campers and volunteers. They appeared ready to go inside. She gestured that he should leave, hoping he’d understand that she and Susie needed privacy. After another few moments, they all headed for the community center.

Finally Susie’s sobs subsided. Carrie reached into the pocket of her capris and pulled out a tissue. She got up, bent and mopped the girl’s face. Susie’s eyes were puffy and red rimmed.

“I try not to cry in front of Daddy,” Susie said, her words still broken. “It makes him sad.”

Carrie’s heart twisted. Surely a father as attentive as Gustavo wouldn’t want his daughter to hold back her tears for his sake.

“There’s nothing wrong with crying, honey,” Carrie said. “Everybody cries.”

“Do you?”

“I sure do,” Carrie said.

“Doesn’t your mommy love you, either?”

Carrie’s breath left her lungs. Here it was, the reason for Susie’s tears. Her inclination was to assure the girl that her mother did indeed love her. Except she couldn’t. She knew nothing of Susie’s mother except that the woman and Gustavo were divorced. She could be from the same mold as Danny’s mother. The social worker had told Carrie straight up that Danny’s mother didn’t want him.

“My mama isn’t with us anymore,” Carrie said.

“My mommy, too,” Susie said, misunderstanding. Her lower lip trembled. “She’s with a man in a hat.”

That made no sense, but it was time to get Susie’s mind off her mother. Distraction always worked with Danny.

“Do you like ice cream?” Carrie asked.

Susie stopped sniffling. She nodded.

“I know of a great place that sells the most delicious homemade ice cream and fudge. What do you say we ask your dad if y’all can go for ice cream with Danny and me after camp.”

“Yes!” Susie shouted.

It would probably ruin all their dinners, but something about ice cream was comforting. Besides, Carrie needed to fill Gustavo in about what was going on with his daughter.

She stood up and extended a hand to Susie. “C’mon, let’s wash those tears away. I want to see your smile.”

Susie bared her teeth in an artificial smile that could have scared a small child.

“Not a fake smile,” Carrie said. “A real one.”

Susie laughed. Carrie was so relieved to hear the sound that she hugged the child and joined in.

* * *

T
ARA
DUG
INTO
THE
VAT
OF
black raspberry ice cream with her silver scooper and piled the cold treat high on a cake cone. She reached over the counter to hand it to the young girl who’d come into the shop with Tara’s mother, Gus Miller, Danny—and Jack DiMarco.

“Here you go, Susie,” Tara said.

The girl took the cone, practically jumping up and down with excitement.

Gus stood off to his daughter’s side, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression tender. “What do you say, Susie?”

“I say I like ice cream!” Susie answered.

“You’re supposed to say thank you,” Danny told her in a loud, halting voice.

“Thank you!” Susie shouted.

“Shh,” Gus said. “Remember your indoor voice, Susie.”

As little as an hour ago, the children could have practiced their manners in front of plenty of customers. The closer it got to dinnertime, however, the emptier the ice cream shop became.

Tara had been expecting some downtime when the contingent from the camp set off the jingling bells above the door. She wasn’t sure which one of their group came as a bigger surprise—her grieving mother or Jack DiMarco.

She knew which customer should be less welcome.

Jack might be the baseball player he said he was, but he was also the brother of the P.I. investigating the Hayley Cooper case. Every minute he spent alone with her mother was pregnant with risk.

She needed to avoid him, too. Even if she didn’t
really want to.

“Put your money away,” Jack told Gus, who was reaching for his wallet. “My treat.”

“You sure?” Gus asked.

“Positive.” Jack stepped up to the counter, rubbing his hands together. The hint of a beard shadowed his lower face, adding an air of ruggedness, making him look even more handsome.

“Everything smells delicious.” He drew in a deep breath of the sugar-scented air. “What do you recommend?”

“People drive for miles for the homemade ice cream, but I’m partial to the chocolate butterscotch fudge,” she said.

“Then that’s what I’ll have,” he said.

Behind him, Gus and her mother were sharing a table with Danny and Susie. Gus said something and everybody at the table laughed, including her mother.

It was the anniversary, and her mother was laughing.

Tara took a small plastic plate and slid open the glass door of the display case, cutting off a generous piece of fudge from the wedge. She handed the candy to Jack and rang up the sale.

“So,” she said, drawing out the syllable, “what are you doing here?”

He extended some bills to her. “I’m about to eat some fudge.”

She took his money, putting the bills into a slot and taking out some change. “You know what I mean.”

“Danny and Susie asked me to come,” he said.

She dumped the change into his hand, careful not to touch him. She already knew she’d get a jolt of awareness if she did.

“The kids said they wanted to spend some time with me because I can’t be at camp tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve got to meet with Art Goodnight.”

“You know Art?”

“I told you I had a reason for being at the fitness club Sunday night.” He had a way of looking at her that made her feel like the only person in the room. “You really should start believing me.”

She wet her suddenly dry lips. “I believe you’re a baseball player.”

“Only because you checked me out,” he said. “My sister phoned last night to say you called the sportsplex.”

Tara’s heart thudded so hard she thought he might hear it. “Your sister, the P.I.”

“Nope, the other one. Annalise is married to Kyle. She stays home with their kids and helps him out with the business.” His shoulders moved up and down. “Annalise and Maria, they take turns calling me. I think they coordinate who has which days.”

“They call you that much?”

“One of them calls every single day,” he said. “My mom calls, too, though not quite so often. Why do you think I’m staying on the Eastern Shore?”

She’d thought it was because of her, but then her imagination had been running rampant since he’d arrived in town. She was more than halfway to believing the wild conclusion she’d jumped to. If only she knew more about what had led Jack to her. For the first time, she entertained the disturbing possibility that somebody in town suspected she was Hayley Cooper.

“I thought you were tracking down more leads for your sister,” Tara said, steering the conversation in the direction she needed it to go.

“Nope,” he said. “She only asked me to track down the one.”

“Tell me something,” she asked with as much nonchalance as she could muster. Her hands felt as if they were shaking, so she grasped one with the other. “What led you to me, anyway?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure. If you like, I’ll ask my sister.”

“No, no,” Tara said quickly. That could be disastrous. “It doesn’t matter. I was just curious.”

“It’d be no problem,” he said. “She really does call me all the time.”

Tara had to clench her jaw so she wouldn’t snap at him to forget it. She couldn’t afford to protest too much. “Whatever. Like I said, it’s not a big deal.”

The door burst open, setting off the bells. Mary Dee hurried through, her shirt coming untucked from her shorts and her normally smooth hair looking windblown. She came around the counter.

“Tara, you are a godsend for filling in for me. I had the most awful toothache. The dentist saw me right away, but it turned out I needed a root canal. Then—” She stopped abruptly, turning to Jack with laserlike focus. “I’ll be damned. You’re the guy who was with Tara last week.”

Oh, great,
Tara thought, remembering the words Mary Dee had used to describe him. Hot. Sexy. A man who could take care of a woman’s needs. What’s worse, deep down Tara agreed with those descriptions. She masked her feelings and resigned herself to making the introductions.

“Mary Dee, this is Jack DiMarco. He’s renting a place out on Shell Beach,” Tara said. “Jack, Mary Dee Larson. She and I work together at Wawpaney Elementary.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack.” Mary Dee twirled a lock of her black hair around her finger. “What a coincidence that you should run into Tara here.”

“Not a coincidence.” He gestured behind him to the table where Tara’s mother and Danny sat with the Millers. “I came with Gus, Carrie and the kids. I’m volunteering at the camp.”

“Really?” Mary Dee pinned Tara with a look. Tara could practically hear the questions running through her friend’s brain. But then her gaze swung to the table. “Carrie’s eating ice cream and smiling on the anniversary? That’s great!”

“What anniversary?” Jack asked.

“Tara hasn’t told you?” Mary Dee asked. “It’s a really
sad story.”

“We’re trying not to dwell on it,” Tara interjected before Mary Dee could continue. “I’d appreciate it, Jack, if you didn’t bring up the subject with my mother.”

He seemed about to say something, then closed his mouth and nodded. “Sure thing.”

“Anything else I can get for you?” Tara asked.

He held up the fudge. “Nope. This’ll do it.”

“Jack!” Danny yelled from across the store. “Mr. Miller wants to see your thumb disappear.”

“Coming,” Jack called. To Mary Dee, he said, “It was very nice meeting you.” His eyes touched on Tara and held. That damned attraction skittered through her again. “Tara, it’s always a pleasure.”

He turned and walked to the table. Mary Dee fanned herself with a hand and pretended to swoon. “Now, if that’s not a man who could set off fireworks inside you, I don’t know who is,” she whispered. “We’ve got to get you some of that.”

“No,” Tara said, trying to sound as if she wasn’t tempted. “We don’t.”

“Oh, come on. He’d be up for it.” She wiggled her brows suggestively. Another time, Tara would have laughed.
“I can tell he likes you.”

Jack stood at the table, smiling and showing no sign of irritation even though this must have been the fifth or sixth time Danny had asked him to perform the trick. He glanced her way, caught her watching him and smiled.

Tara quickly broke eye contact before she smiled back at him. She needed to keep contact with Jack at an absolute minimum, both for her mother and herself.

The less he knew about their lives, the better. She didn’t need Jack—or, worse, the P.I. sister who kept in constant telephone contact with him—speculating about how losing a husband and daughter had affected her mother.

One of them might even entertain the notion that Carrie Greer had replaced the little girl she’d lost with another one.

* * *

D
ANNY
SANK
TO
HIS
KNEES
on the screened-in porch of the Bay Breeze B and B that Gustavo had inherited from his grandmother, not the slightest bit interested in the stunning Chesapeake Bay view.

Carrie had to admit the objects of Danny’s attention were pretty captivating, too.