Heard It Through the Grapevine. Teresa Hill
it seemed a lot like God had just hit her on the head.
Warily, she crept over to the little wooden box as if it might have sprouted wings and flown into her forehead, all on its own. But she’d knocked it off the refrigerator.
That was all.
No big mystery there. No odd powers at work.
She felt silly for still having the thing.
It was her God Box. One of the quaint traditions of her father’s church. A turn-it-over-to-God thing. All the kids got one. For problems they didn’t think they could deal with on their own. Cathie had taken an introductory psych class, so she understood the concept. Letting go of things we simply can’t control or change.
They had a saying in her family: Take it to the Box. She’d done that with so many problems over the years, some of which had been solved and some she was still hoping to see resolved. They were still in the Box, scribbled on little slips of paper.
At least, they had been inside, until she’d knocked the Box off the refrigerator.
Feeling foolish, she got down on her hands and knees, scrambling to find those little papers and stuffing them back inside, as if any of those childhood secrets and wishes mattered now.
Her life had been so much simpler then.
Cathie sat on the floor, glancing warily at the Box, feeling too guilty and too ashamed of herself to say a prayer.
But it wasn’t so hard to say, Help me, please.
Or to write it down.
It felt silly, but she’d been crying forever, no closer to an answer than she had been when the blasted stick had turned blue. She could use all the help she could get.
Scribbling frantically through fresh tears, she managed to get down one frantic plea, then folded the paper up into tinier and tinier pieces, like she had when she was little. She tucked the paper inside and was just starting to think, Okay, what do I do now?
Honestly, it hadn’t been a minute.
When her doorbell rang, she was as startled as she’d been when the Box hit her on the head.
Not a single interior light was visible through the windows of the shabby, old house perched on the edge of the North Carolina college campus.
The house’s paint was flaking, the yard needed mowing, and the police should probably be called to deal with the two men half a block away, guzzling beer, shoving each other and swearing. A cat was on the prowl for its dinner, garbage was piling up on the curb and there didn’t seem to be a functioning streetlight on the whole block.
Matthew Monroe climbed out of his very expensive, steel-gray Mercedes and frowned. What the hell, he thought, activating the car’s security system. No reason to make it easy. Things had been much simpler in his car-thieving days.
Pocketing the car keys, he frowned as he headed for the old house, the last place in the world he wanted to be tonight or any other night.
Because she lived here.
But Mary Baldwin was the closest thing Matt had ever had to a mother, and Mary was worried about her daughter. Which meant someone had to go see if Mary’s little girl was all right. Matt was the closest thing to family Cathie had in town, so he was elected.
He climbed the front steps and pounded on the flimsy, pressed-wood door. An odd sensation—faintly reminiscent of nerves—rumbled around in the pit of his stomach. Nothing really worried him, anymore. Except her.
He waited, not hearing a sound. But her ancient Volkswagen bug was parked out front.
Saturday night, he remembered. She could be out on a date. It was amazing, really. Cathie Baldwin, all grown up. Dating.
He swore at the image that brought to mind. A hot, summer night. No moon, but a million stars. Cathie, barely sixteen years old, jailbait if he ever saw it. With tears in her eyes, a flush of embarrassment in her cheeks and indecent amounts of pale, creamy soft skin bared for him to see.
Everything had been fine between them until that night. Cathie had been a scrawny little kid who’d once devoted herself to saving his worthless hide. He’d lived in her parents’ home from the time he was fifteen until he was eighteen, a part of them but not really one of the family, a distinction he’d always understood.
Even once he was eighteen and no longer a subject of the state’s foster care program, Mary, a do-gooder of the highest order, and Cathie kept treating him like family. During his breaks from college, Mary hounded him until he finally gave in and found himself back in the midst of the Baldwin clan once or twice a year.
It had been one of those visits, when he was twenty-three, that Cathie had thrown herself at him. As Matt saw it, he owed the Baldwins, and if it was the only decent thing he ever did in his life, he was going to keep his hands off their daughter.
He’d been doing fine until eight months ago when Cathie finally left home for college and ended up here in his town. Cathie, indulged and protected her entire life, who might as well walk around with a sign that said Take Advantage of Me. She’d always believed there was good in everyone. Even snipping, snarling, wild-eyed, would-be teenage car thieves.
One last time, he pounded on her door.
Finally, he heard the faint sound of footsteps coming from inside. A voice sounding oddly strained, called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s Matt,” he admitted, though it certainly wouldn’t make her want to open the door. Silence. Matt grew more uneasy. “Cath? You okay?”
“I’ve got a cold. I don’t think you want to catch this.”
“I’ll risk it. Open up.”
“Matt, really. I’m fine. I was just sleeping, and I want to go back to bed.”
He pushed an impatient hand through his hair, then shoved the hand into the pocket of his slacks. Cathie Baldwin in a bed?
No, he would not go there.
“Cathie, I’ve been thinking this door really is too flimsy. I should replace it with something stronger.” He’d done all the locks when she’d moved in, but that didn’t seem like enough now. “So breaking down the door wouldn’t bother me at all.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me,” he shot back, unleashing every bit of worry he’d had over her safety in those two little words.
The door cracked open. Through the narrow opening, he peered into the darkness and saw nothing more than the outline of her face.
“It’s pitch-black in there,” he complained.
“I told you I was sleeping. And now you’ve seen me. You can go.”
“Me? Or your mother, Cath? Take your pick, but one of us is going to be inside that apartment, if not tonight, tomorrow.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“We’ve been through this already with the door. You know I would.”
She fumbled with the chain lock and finally stepped back to let him inside.
He looked her over from head to toe. She angled her face away from him, hiding behind a curtain of light brown hair sprinkled with blond sunshine. It was the beginning of December, but unseasonably warm. She had on a big sweatshirt in Carolina blue, the color of one of the local college sports teams, and a ragged pair of faded blue jean shorts. He couldn’t quite make himself stop staring at the lean expanse of skin, from her thighs all the way down to bare feet and dainty, pink-tinted toenails.
Damn. Matt tugged at his tie, then reached for the tiny lamp on the table in the corner and flicked it on.
Cathie winced at the flood of light and quickly turned away. “I suppose if you’re staying, I could at least offer you some coffee.”
She